strawberries&stars✨

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. “Congratulations,” he says. “When’s the big day?”

They share a look. The woman says, “Oh—we haven’t set a date yet.”

“Well,” Oscar says, lowering his voice just enough to feel conspiratorial, “whenever it is, make sure you get a prenup. Best gift you can give yourselves, trust me. Think of it as insurance. Romance-proof.”

The fiancée’s smile falters. The fiancé tilts his head, as if trying to work out if Oscar’s joking. He isn’t. By the time you glance up, the conversation is mid-sentence and heading straight for a cliff. “Piastri!” you snap, sliding out of your chair like a general striding into battle. “What the hell are you doing?”

He sits back, lazy grin in place. “Just offering professional advice. You know. Free consultation.”

The couple look between you and him, confusion thick enough to stir into their cappuccinos. “Do you know him?” the groom-to-be asks carefully.

“Unfortunately,” you grit out. “That’s Oscar. He’s a divorce attorney. Which explains why he’s trying to assassinate your wedding before it even starts.”

“I’m not assassinating,” Oscar protests mildly. “I’m safeguarding. Big difference.”

You plant your hands on your hips. “You’re meddling. Again.”

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. 

“In case you change your mind,” he says. His tone is maddeningly polite, as though he’s 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 you’re 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. “So,” he hears you say, as if the last sixty seconds never happened, “let’s talk about the wedding.” 

Oscar, nursing the last of his coffee, watches you slip into that peculiar rhythm you have. The one that’s equal parts dreamy and surgical. You’re talking to the couple now, voice low but animated, eyes alight. They lean in, enchanted, and Oscar can’t decide if it’s the story you’re 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 it’s sacred, like you believe in it. And maybe that’s what gets him.

It’s been a while since Oscar has been in love with you, after all.

Not that he’s admitting it aloud. He never has, never will. But it was there, once. 

Back in high school, when he’d sit two rows behind you in AP Lit and pretend he wasn’t 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 didn’t 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 that’s why it works. You stayed in love with love; he stayed skeptical. 

Present-day Oscar, watching you now as you light up over centerpieces and seating charts, feels that old pull in his chest. It’s not a sharp ache anymore. It’s softer, settled. This—what you have now—is 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 you’ve built.

The couple laughs at something you’ve said, and you beam, scribbling down notes. Capturing lightning in shorthand. Oscar smirks into his empty cup. 

Let them have their fairytale, he thinks. He’s already got his.

Hours later, Oscar’s halfway through drafting an email to a client when your shadow falls across his table. He doesn’t look up right away. He’s 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. “Problem?”

“You ambushed my clients,” you say point blank. 

“Ambushed is a strong word,” he says, clicking his laptop closed. “I prefer ‘enlightened.’”

You slide into the chair opposite him, the scrape of wood on tile sharper than necessary. “They came here to talk about centerpieces, not contingency clauses.”

Oscar leans back, folding his arms. “And 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.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You owe me for that.”

“Oh? What’s the damage?”

“Dinner tonight. My pick.”

Oscar pretends to weigh his options, tapping his fingers on the table. Honestly, for all his stubborness, he can’t remember the last time he said ‘no’ to you. “Fine,” he concedes. “But if you pick that vegan place again, I’m bringing a steak in a to-go box.”

You grin, victory claimed. “Noted.”

It’s 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. You’d kept in touch through blurry FaceTime calls and the occasional holiday reunion, but when you both ended up in New York, it wasn’t even a discussion. The apartments across the hall were open; you took one, he took the other. Done, dusted. 

And now, you’ve built a life that overlaps without ever feeling crowded. M-W-F dinners (alternating who cooks, though Oscar’s 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 other’s 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.

There’s the spare key that’s changed hands so many times it barely qualifies as ‘spare.’ There’s the unspoken agreement to check in after long days, even if it’s just leaning against opposite doorframes. And there’s 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 you’re thinking of places that will irritate him just enough to make it fun. He should probably dread it. Instead, there’s a part of him—small, quiet—that wonders if this is what people mean when they talk about home.

When it comes down to it, Oscar doesn’t actually remember agreeing to pizza. One moment, you were tucking your phone away with that mysterious, self-satisfied look you get when you’ve 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.

“Is this my punishment?” he asks as you stride ahead, skirt catching the late-summer breeze. “Public humiliation via grease stains?”

“It’s called dinner,” you toss over your shoulder, weaving through pedestrians without slowing down. “Also, you like this place.”

“I like the idea of it. I like it when I’m not wearing a suit that costs more than your entire outfit.”

“Your dry cleaner will survive. Also, rude.”

You’re an odd pair. He’s 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 he’s just standing in line for coffee. Somehow, walking side by side down these blocks, it’s never felt like a mismatch. It’s only you and him. An established unit.

The pizza joint isn’t fancy. Red vinyl booths worn to a soft shine, the faint smell of oregano and melted cheese baked permanently into the walls. It’s 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. “Same order?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You mean the one you pretend is ours but is actually just yours?”

“It’s called a compromise.”

“It’s called you ordering half with pineapple and daring me to complain.”

“You always eat it,” you counter, already flagging down the waiter.

Because it’s easier than arguing, he thinks, though he’d never hand you that victory. Besides, he’s 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. 

The order arrives, steam curling off the cheese. You’re 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. 

There’s a rhythm to this—to you. The bickering, the shared meals, the comfort in the background hum. It’s the kind of thing you don’t notice you’re missing until it’s gone. At some point, you slide the first slice his way without looking. He takes it, because he’ll take anything and everything you think to give. Even the ones he claims he doesn’t want. 

The walk back is unhurried, partly because you stop at every other storefront, and partly because Oscar doesn’t mind. Tonight’s detour is a bodega window that hasn’t 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 he’s about to say anything sentimental. He’s not that foolish.

By the time you make it back to the apartment building, you’re 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.

“Lose them again?” he says, purely for sport.

“They’re in here somewhere. Don’t act like you’ve never—”

“I have a system,” he interrupts.

“You have a filing cabinet for a personality.”

“Which is why I’m never locked out.”

You glance up, one eyebrow raised. “Except that one time—”

“That was a faulty lock,” he deapdans. “And slander.”

The keys appear with a metallic jingle, your victory grin annoyingly smug. “Saturday, movie night?”

“Depends. Is it going to be another three-hour period drama where the only action is people sighing over teacups?”

“You loved that one.”

“I tolerated it.”

“You cried.”

“Allergies.”

You unlock your door, turning to fire off one last line: “Friday dinner, Saturday movie. Don’t forget.”

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 this—key hunts, snide comments, plans penciled in without asking—and a strange steadiness roots itself in his chest. 

When he finally turns his own key, he tells himself he wouldn’t 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.

It’s Saturday night, and Oscar’s 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 “You pick the movie” was never actually a gift—it was a trap. Yet, here he is, sitting on your couch, holding a paper plate with a cupcake you’d baked, watching the title card for Maid of Honor flash on the screen.

He glances at you. You’re tucked into your corner of his sofa, skirt draped over your knees, smug in that way people are when they’ve won a battle you didn’t know you were fighting. He takes a bite of the cupcake. It’s good in that sickly sweet way. Irritatingly so. “You’re not even trying to hide your agenda,” he says.

“What agenda?” 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: “So… have your thoughts on marriage changed?”

Oscar sighs. Not just a sigh. An exhale steeped in years of repetition. “Why do I even let you pick movies?”

You tilt your head, smiling just enough to make it worse. “I’ve been good. I haven’t asked in, what, six months?”

He levels you with a look. “Three.”

“Six,” 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 cafés, 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. “You’re relentless,” he says, the slightest hint of annoyance tingeing his tone.

“And you love me for it,” you retort.

The thing is—well, yes. He does. But Oscar isn’t 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 witness’s 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.

“You can’t tell me Maid of Honor didn’t soften you up even a little,” you say, voice pitched with a teasing lilt that masks a pointed challenge.

“I can, and I will,” he replies, turning on the tap. The water hisses over porcelain, steam curling into the air. “You’re forgetting I’ve got a canned answer for this, refined over years of ambushes like tonight.”

“Oh, the infamous speech,” you say, shit-eating grin widening. “Do I get the deluxe edition tonight?”

He smiles faintly, eyes fixed on the plate he’s rinsing. “C’mon, you know this story. Grew up watching my parents’ 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.”

You grimace, as if he’s told you cupcakes are a controlled substance. “You know that’s depressing, right?”

“It’s realistic,” he says, scrubbing at a fork with the methodical rhythm of someone who likes his thoughts as tidy as his cutlery. 

Soap, rinse, stack. Facts don’t 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 that’s absurdly distracting. “Or maybe you just like having an excuse,” you say. 

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. It’s an alternate timeline he’s already filed away in the ‘unwise’ drawer. “Or maybe,” he says, rinsing the last plate and shaking off the water, “some of us don’t believe in signing legally binding contracts for feelings.”

You hum. Low, thoughtful, not remotely deterred. It’s the sound of a wheel turning, of a strategy in motion. He’s not sure if you’re trying to change his mind or just enjoying the act of cornering him. 

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. 

Instead, you lean forward, bracing your elbows on the counter, eyes gleaming with a challenge he’s already certain he won’t like. “Alright,” you say, deliberate and smug. “I’ll drop it forever if you give me one wedding.”

He freezes mid-motion, wrist dripping over the sink. “I’m sorry. One what?”

“One wedding. Just one. To change your mind.” 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, it’s 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.

“You—” He tries, fails, tries again. “You want to—” A wheeze interrupts him, laughter tearing through the attempt. “—undo two decades of carefully cultivated cynicism with… a catered buffet and bad DJ remixes?”

You smack his arm in mock outrage, which has the exact opposite effect. He’s 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.

“God, you’re—” He presses the heel of his palm to his face, still grinning like an idiot. “—ridiculous. So, so ridiculous.”

You’re still watching him with that infuriating calm, as if you’d known this was exactly how he’d react. As if the laughter was, in some small way, the point.

Oscar’s still teary-eyed and winded when he straightens, managing, “Alright, but what’s in it for me?”

The pause is telling. He can see the gears in your head stalling. You’ve clearly lobbed this dare without a single contingency plan. “What do you mean, ‘what’s in it for you’?” you ask, as though the proposition of staging an entire wedding purely to sway his opinion should be incentive enough.

“I mean,” he says, leaning back against the counter because his sides hurt too much to support him, “you’re asking me to gamble my time, dress up, and endure whatever Pinterest-board fever dream you’ve been hoarding. That’s a high-stakes request. I want terms.”

You cross your arms. “Fine. What do you want?”

You, some quiet voice chirps in the back of Oscar’s head. He assassinates its source immediately. “What do I want?” He taps his chin, feigning thoughtfulness, as he fights down a grin. “I dunno. You tell me.” 

“You can choose the movies for six months,” you try, “or I’ll pay for the next roadtrip.” 

“Wow. Nice to know what my views on matrimony are worth to you.” 

“Oscar.” 

The thought occurs to him like a lightning strike. “If I’m not convinced by the end of this wedding, you have to admit, on record,” he says, the words falling out of him in a stream, “that marriage doesn’t guarantee a happily ever after.”

Your mouth falls open. “That’s—”

“A direct contradiction of your tagline, yes,” he cuts in, feigning sympathy. “Weddings: The first chapter of your happy ever after. Catchy, but tragically optimistic.”

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 doesn’t waver. If anything, it sharpens with the smugness of someone who knows he’s cornered you. Eventually, you sigh. “Alright. You’ve got a deal.”

He extends his hand, but just as your fingers brush his, he pulls it back with a shake of his head. “No, no. Not like this. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way.”

You arch a brow. “Your way being…?”

“Contract,” he says, already heading for his desk. “Drafted, signed, possibly notarized. Witness signatures optional but encouraged.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he calls over his shoulder, tapping the spacebar to wake his laptop, “you still want to marry me off.”

Oscar knows the second you text him the address that this isn’t going to be a normal afternoon. 

The day’s plans are not in the city. It’s 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 doesn’t 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.

“You didn’t tell me this was going to be a high school reunion,” 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 that’s missing is a fake snow machine. 

You’re crouched two feet away, adjusting a loose strand of Carmen’s hair over her shoulder for ‘balance.’ Oscar doubts ‘hair balance’ is an actual, measurable metric, but you treat it with the seriousness of a NASA launch. “Hm?” you murmur, not looking at him.

“This couple. Russell. Mundt. You’re telling me this wasn’t intentional?” He leaves the question hanging in the crisp air, because if there’s one thing he knows about you, it’s that plausible deniability is rare currency.

You glance over your shoulder, catch the exact look he’s wearing—the one that says he’s about five seconds from declaring this whole wedding experiment null and void—and straighten. “Oh, no. God, no. Total coincidence. I didn’t even realize until they sent their headshots.”

“Headshots.”

“Pre-wedding portraits. Same thing.” You wave toward Carmen and George, now forehead-to-forehead beneath the draping limbs of a willow tree. “Also, you didn’t go to our prom. You can’t call it a reunion.”

“Because I had the foresight to avoid things like this,” 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 résistance—a rented golden retriever who looks like it would rather be anywhere else.

You sigh, a soft, apologetic puff that—much to his irritation—makes him feel like he’s being the difficult one here. “Look, I swear, it’s not some nostalgia trip,” you say patiently. “They booked me months ago. And they’re nice people. You’ll like them.”

Oscar’s about to tell you that liking them is irrelevant to the point when George dips Carmen again. She’s laughing into the collar of his sweater, eyes shut, the sound carrying just far enough to make the whole tableau feel uncomfortably genuine. Oscar isn’t sure he likes that. Still, there’s no denying it: they look happy. Annoyingly, effortlessly happy. If this is the couple you’ve chosen to chip away at his long-held dogmas, maybe you’re not just playing matchmaker. You’re 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, it’s inevitable. Oscar’s tall, and he’s been loitering in plain sight. George waves, cheerful in that easy, quarterback-turned-finance-guy way, and Carmen’s smile is the same one that made her prom photos look like toothpaste ads.

“You’re Piastri, right?” George says, extending a hand that could probably still throw a perfect spiral. “We thought we recognized you.”

Oscar glances at you, already halfway through winding up a polite smile. “Right,” he says, shaking George’s hand. “From high school.”

Carmen laughs. “I can’t believe this is happening!” 

Before Oscar can prepare himself, George cocks his head, all innocent curiosity. “So, how long have you two been together?”

There’s a beat—long enough for Oscar to hear the faint click of your brain short-circuiting—before you blurt, “Oh, we’re not—” at the same time he says, “Absolutely not.”

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. Oscar’s aware it sounds exactly like the sort of thing people say right before announcing their engagement. Carmen’s grin turns knowing. George looks amused in a way Oscar finds faintly irritating.

You recover first, smoothing it over with a smile that’s maybe three watts too bright. “We work together. Sort of. Different fields.”

“Opposite fields,” Oscar adds, because precision matters. Especially when one’s career revolves around making the difference between amicable and messy sound like a legal argument.

“Oh?” Carmen tilts her head to Oscar. “What do you do?”

“I’m a divorce attorney.” 

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, “So… she starts the story, and you end it?”

“Something like that,” Oscar replies, letting the corner of his mouth tip up just enough to make it unclear whether he’s joking. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches you looking at him with that expression that’s part amusement, part something softer. He tells himself it’s just your way of keeping the bit going. But the truth is, the warmth that flickers through him says otherwise, and it’s annoyingly hard to shake.

Carmen’s smile could power a small city when she says, “You should join us for dinner. Our treat.”

That’s a bold assumption. Oscar has at least four solid excuses queued up, none of them true but all perfectly plausible. He’s 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. 

And that’s it. Game over. He exhales, already hearing the gavel in his head. “Sure,” he says, because apparently his willpower folds faster than bad origami when you’re 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 they’ve been secretly training for the Olympics in synchronized infatuation. 

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 Carmen’s hand mid-story. “You two must have so much fun being friends.”

Oscar chews his food slowly, buying time, then deadpans, “Oh, sure. Nothing says fun like contract law and flower arrangements.”

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, he’s 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 it’s 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 doesn’t 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 it’s paid by the hour. The air smells faintly of takeout—someone’s stir-fry, maybe—and there’s a scuffed shoe print on the wall opposite your door that Oscar can’t stop noticing. You’re 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.

“So,” he says, drawing the word out, “that was… dinner.”

You glance up briefly, distracted. “Dinner was fine. You were the problem.”

He lets out a low laugh. “I was polite. Mostly.”

“Polite is a strong word,” you mutter, rifling through your bag. A pen falls out. A crumpled receipt. Half a packet of mints, which you don’t offer him.

“Carmen and George are intense.” He pauses, pretending to search for a diplomatic synonym, but gives up. “Like a rom-com no one asked to sit through.”

That gets you to smile before you toss out, almost absently, “What if we’d been like that? Back in high school?”

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. 

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. 

“What if,” he echoes, not quite a question, not quite agreement.

You don’t elaborate. He doesn’t press. It’s not the kind of conversation you dismantle under the buzzing light of a hallway that smells like someone else’s leftovers. Your keys finally appear. You flash him a victorious smile and an off-tune sing-song of ‘good night’ 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 it’s just the absence of your voice making the silence feel bigger. He tells himself he’s only standing there because he’s tired, that moving takes effort after a long night. But the truth is simpler: He stays because he wants to.

Oscar’s commute is, like most of his mornings, unremarkable. Train, sidewalk, coffee, the whole civilized crawl toward another day of dissolving other people’s happily-ever-afters. 

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 city’s 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. “Morning, Oscar.”

“Morning, Janine. Bribed the coffee machine yet?”

“Gave it a stern talking-to,” she says. “It’s ignoring me.”

Mick is leaning against a doorframe ahead, looking like a man allergic to chairs. “Got the Delaney file?”

“Do I look like I bring work home?” Oscar asks.

“Yes,” Mick says, without hesitation.

Frederik’s in the bullpen already, sleeves rolled, surrounded by the mild chaos of three open case files and a half-eaten muffin. “Your client’s at two,” he says.

“Perfect,” Oscar replies. “Plenty of time to remember why I chose this noble profession.”

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 doesn’t 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 don’t put something like that in a drawer. You leave it out where you can see it, and pretend you don’t know why. Eventually, he picks up the Post-It, rereading it again as though it might have changed overnight. It hasn’t. Still absurd. Still you. He delicately puts it on the stack of other Post-Its you’ve left him this past month. 

Oscar’s afternoon is the kind of appointment that would give most junior associates hives. High-asset divorce, two parties who can’t 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 they’re preparing for trench warfare.

Across from him: the soon-to-be-exes, glaring through their respective attorneys. Their glares are precise. Practiced. They’ve probably been rehearsing in the mirror. The couple—Arthur  and Dana—sit on opposite ends of the table, as if physical distance will keep the arguments from ricocheting. Spoiler: it won’t.

Dana leans forward, jabbing a finger at the paperwork. “He’s keeping the cabin? After everything? That cabin was mine before we even—”

Arthur cuts in, voice sharp. “Yours? You didn’t even like going there unless the Wi-Fi worked. Which it never did, by the way.”

Oscar sets his briefcase down, calm to the point of suspicion. “Let’s try to avoid turning this into a wireless connectivity debate,” he says. “We’re here to divide assets, not discuss rural internet speeds.”

Dana huffs, crossing her arms. “Fine. Then I want the dog.”

“You didn’t even walk the dog! I walked him every morning.”

“Because you were always up at five to doomscroll!” 

Oscar glances at Mick, who’s taking notes on the far side of the room. “Remind me why we haven’t separated visitation for the dog yet?” asks Oscar, as if it’s a matter of national concern. 

Mick shrugs. “Because they can’t agree on who buys the treats.”

“Let’s focus.” Oscar doesn’t raise his, because he doesn’t need to. 

There’s a rhythm to these sessions, and he’s the metronome. Every word measured, every concession framed as a strategic victory, every flare-up dampened with a tone that’s just this side of condescending. It works. It always works. When one spouse snaps about the other’s spending habits, Oscar doesn’t flinch. He slides in a question that reframes the conversation into something quantifiable. When the other starts to cry, he doesn’t do the sympathetic head tilt. He keeps it moving. Efficiency isn’t coldness. It’s survival.

He’s not unemotional, though he lets people think that. What he is now—this calm, this precision—was learned the hard way. Back when his parents’ divorce was a slow-motion implosion and he’d 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 it’s gone, dissolved into something sharper, more useful.

The session ends with signatures and clipped handshakes. The couple leaves without looking at each other. He’s already halfway through making notes when his phone buzzes with a text from you. lol it’s us ^^, it says. 

It’s 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 people’s 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 else’s marital collapse. He tells himself it’s fine. It’s just the job. It’s not like he hasn’t seen worse, and it’s not like he hasn’t learned how to compartmentalize. Except, of course, he has. That’s the whole problem.

Despite all his cultivated detachment, some afternoons get under his skin. Watching two people dismantle the life they built together isn’t exactly uplifting, no matter how cleanly you draft the paperwork. He knows he’s good. Clinical, precise, quick on his feet. ‘Good’ doesn’t make it pleasant, though. The arguments echo longer than he’d like, little splinters lodging in his thoughts.

By the time the train slows near his stop, he’s 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. That’s when he sees you. Through the big glass windows of Arrow Central, you’re at one of the tables by the back. Headset on, utterly absorbed. Your fingers move in quick bursts over the keyboard. You’re singing some song he can’t hear, your mouth shaping the lyrics with unselfconscious precision. 

You’re in your own world, and he’s the idiot standing on the sidewalk watching it like a scene from a movie. He doesn’t know how long he’s 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 he’s lost. 

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 he’s 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.

“You’re my logistics team.”

Oscar narrows his eyes at you across the coffee shop table. “That’s not a real job title.”

“It is if I say it with enough confidence,” you counter, already scrolling for the address Carmen sent. “Besides, I need someone to keep track of my bag while I’m helping her. You’re perfect for it.”

“Ah, so I’m a coat rack now.”

“Don’t be dramatic. You’ll be a supportive friend.”

That’s how he ends up in the passenger seat of your car, wondering if this is karmic punishment for every time he’s told a client they ‘just need to compromise.’ You’re humming along to something on the radio, blissfully unaware that you’ve 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 should’ve worn a better shirt. The sales associate greets you with an enthusiastic, “You must be here for Carmen!” 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 Oscar’s rent. “You made it!” she beams.

“You look amazing,” you say, darting toward her.

Oscar hangs back, watching you fuss with the hem, adjust the veil, squeal at the beadwork. He’s not sure what his role here actually is, aside from existing quietly in the corner like an unwilling chaperone. “How do I look, Oscar?” Carmen asks, turning toward him.

He gives a diplomatic nod. “Like you’ve single-handedly funded a Parisian designer’s vacation home.”

You shoot him a look. “Translation: gorgeous.”

“That too,” he says, because apparently sarcasm isn’t 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 he’s unqualified to mediate. Every so often you throw a comment over your shoulder, usually to mock him for looking ‘like a dad in a mall’ or to demand he fetch the sales associate. He does it, because despite his better judgment and the fact that he’s absolutely being used as a pack mule, he’s signed a contract. One supposedly life-altering wedding which is beginning to look like an unpaid internship.  

Oscar’s halfway through deciding whether the armchair in the corner is comfortable enough to nap in when Carmen says, “You should try that one.”

At first, he assumes she’s 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 you’ve already pictured it on even if you’re pretending you haven’t. You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not the bride, Carmen.”

“So? Humor me.” 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 grin—a grin that’s trouble in heels—and vanish into the dressing room without another word.

He plops down into the chair and goes back to scrolling through his phone, telling himself he’s not thinking about it, about you. He’s just killing time. That’s it. Until the curtain swishes open, and you, stepping out, say, “Alright. How do I look?”

Oscar looks up. The entire room forgets how to function. Or maybe just him. 

The dress fits you like it was built around your laugh, your shoulders, the way you stand when you’re not paying attention. Fluid lines, quiet elegance, and—God help him—a certain kind of light he’s pretty sure wasn’t in the room before. Every smart remark in his arsenal packs up and leaves without notice.

You tilt your head, waiting. “Well?”

He should say something clever, something that keeps him behind the usual fence of sarcasm. But his mouth has gone rogue.  “You look…” He stops, blinks, as though the perfect adjective might appear if he stares at the floor long enough. None does. “… sufficient.”

Carmen giggles, somehow managing to disguise it as a cough instead. 

Oscar leans back in the armchair, pretending to check something on his phone. Really, he’s watching you from under his lashes. You’re a whirl of movement. Spinning in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem, babbling to Carmen about how surprisingly comfortable the dress is. You’re lit up in a way that makes the entire boutique feel warmer, like the overhead lights are conspiring with you.

It’s 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 it’s a wedding. Your wedding. His imagination, ever the sadist, paints it in perfect detail. Your laugh, the way your hand would linger on someone’s arm, the curve of your smile. He tries—really tries—to slot himself into the groom’s position. 

But the thought catches somewhere in his chest and refuses to move, heavy and impossible. He can’t make it fit. The groom’s face blurs until it’s just… not him.

It’s pathetic. And worse, it’s dangerous. Because if he lingers too long, he’ll start wondering about timelines and choices and every stupid what-if he’s trained himself to shut down.

“Hey,” you call, jolting him back. You’re grinning at him in the mirror. “Don’t look so serious. You’re starting to scare the mannequins.”

He exhales, aims for nonchalance, misses by a mile. “I’m just wondering how you conned me into being your unpaid bridal consultant.”

“You’re logistics,” you say, prim as anything. “It’s an important role.”

“Right,” he mutters, “because when I imagined my Thursday afternoon, I definitely pictured tulle.”

You flash him that over-the-shoulder look. “Admit it. You’re having fun.”

He snorts, which is safer than answering. But his voice still comes out a little uneven when he says, “Sure. Let’s call it that.”

The wedding dress fiasco messes with Oscar so badly that he agrees to a date with somebody from law school. 

Oscar meets Isabella at a quiet Italian place in the Village, the sort of restaurant that looks like it was decorated entirely by someone’s nonna and smells like oregano and faint regret. She’s already there when he arrives, sitting at a corner table in a crisp white blouse that says she’s come straight from work, or at least wants to look like she has. “Hey, stranger,” she says, standing to greet him. Warm smile. Firm handshake. A deposition, but friendlier.

“Hey,” he says back, sliding into the chair opposite her. “You look lawyerly.”

She laughs. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”

They order wine—red for her, white for him—and the conversation falls into the easy rhythm of two people who’ve 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, it’s great. She’s great. Smart, funny, ambitious. The kind of woman his colleagues would tell him he’s an idiot not to marry. She even does pro bono work on weekends, for Christ’s 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 drifts—uninvited, annoying—to you. How you’d wrinkle your nose at the breadsticks, claiming they’re ‘too chewy,’ and then steal half of his anyway. How you’d nudge his foot under the table just to throw him off mid-sentence.

Isabella smiles mid-story. “You’re quiet. I didn’t bore you with that, did I?”

“No, no,” he says quickly, forcing his attention back. “I was just… thinking about something.”

“Hopefully something good.” She smiles, and he feels that familiar twinge of guilt. She deserves someone who’s 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 didn’t prepare them for navigating restaurant menus with too many pasta options. She laughs at the right beats, but every time she leans forward, he can’t help thinking of how you’d do it differently. Chin propped on your hand, eyes dancing like you’ve just baited him into an argument you fully intend to win. He’s not even sure if he’s comparing, or if you’re just there in the background, stubbornly refusing to leave the room.

The date survives dinner, and now they’re 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 it’s in on the joke. Isabella is easy company. That’s the problem. Easy means Oscar can’t point to anything wrong. Easy means she’ll nod at his dry remarks, volley back something light, and he’ll smile not because he wants to but because it’s what is expected. 

“So,” she says, scanning the display case of ice cream, “how’s your best friend—what’s her name again? Oh! Right.”

The sound of your name catches him like a tripwire. He blinks at the pistachio gelato as if it just insulted him. “You know her?”

Isabella nods, scooping her hair over one shoulder. “I mean, yeah. When you weren’t stressing over moot court, you were spending time with her.” There’s a half-smile there, amused but not unkind. “We all thought she was your girlfriend.”

Oscar shrugs, which is his roundabout way of stalling. “She wasn’t,” he says, barely resisting the urge to add, End of story. 

“Mm.” Isabella takes a taste-test spoon from the server. “Funny, though. Every time I run into someone from our circles, your name and hers come up in the same breath. Like a matched set.”

The truth makes him feel like the ground beneath him is shaky. He tries to deflect. “Maybe you’ve just got a bad sample size.”

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. She’s perceptive. Probably too perceptive. They both end up ordering the same flavor, which feels too much like a metaphor for him to enjoy. 

As they leave, cones in hand, Oscar wonders—not for the first time—if there’s anyone in his life you haven’t already quietly colonized.

The walk to Isabella’s 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, Oscar’s 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 she’s 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. “You want to come in?”

It’s said casually, but there’s something in her eyes. Hope, maybe. He hesitates. A fraction too long. She reads it instantly, because she’s no fool. “Right,” she says lightly, smile dimming just enough to be polite instead of inviting. “Then I’ll just do this.”

Before he can ask what this is, she leans in and kisses him. He kisses back. Well, he tries. It’s competent, technically fine, like both of them are following choreography they learned years ago. But there’s 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, “Take care, Oscar.” It’s not cold, but it’s final.

“Yeah, Isabella,” he sighs, the well-wishes sounding a lot like I’m sorry for wasting your time. “You, too.” 

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.

Oscar’s still working out how long it’ll take to get the sticky patch of melted ice cream off his hand when he unlocks his apartment and stops dead. 

You’re 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. “Oh. Hey. Hope you don’t mind—”

“What are you doing here?”

“I ran out of cereal.” You gesture at the open box on his counter, spoon already in your hand. “You had some. Problem solved.”

You hadn’t 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 they’re 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 you’re here at all. “You could’ve just… I don’t know, gone to the store?”

“Could’ve. Didn’t.” You point your spoon at him. “How was the date?”

Oscar hesitates. He could give the diplomatic answer, keep it vague, spare himself the self-awareness. Instead, he exhales, “Don’t think anything’s gonna come out of it.”

“Bummer,” you say, not missing a beat before going back to your cereal.

You change the subject, launching into some story about your mutual friend’s 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.

You’re halfway through crunching another spoonful of cereal when Oscar says it, casual in tone, not so casual in timing. “Why haven’t you dated anyone lately?”

A smile tugs at your mouth, the kind that says you’ve already got your answer and he’s not going to like it. “Because I’ve always been date-to-marry.”

He should’ve seen that coming. He did see it coming, if he’s honest. It’s 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 he’d 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. 

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. “Why? You trying to set me up with one of your friends?”

“God, no,” he says automatically, which earns him a raised brow from you. He swallows down the too-quick denial with a shrug. “They’re all idiots.”

You laugh—easy, unbothered—before 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. 

Instead, he calls out, “Good night,” and you don’t even say it back. You just wave, leaving Oscar with the bitter reminder that he never quite measured up where it mattered. 

The rehearsal dinner is not, by any stretch of the imagination, going smoothly. 

The caterer’s late, the florist’s 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 you—actually, no, he does feel bad for you—but mostly he’s impressed. You’re everywhere at once. Smoothing ruffled tempers, delegating with military precision, somehow making people think fixing the seating chart is their idea. You look like you’re 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 you’ve just single-handedly prevented an international crisis, he says, “You’re a miracle worker.”

You glance at him, brow arched. “Flattery won’t get you out of moving chairs.”

“Wasn’t trying to get out of it,” he says, but it’s a lie. A charming lie. The kind you both know he’s telling.

You roll your eyes, even though the corners of your mouth betray you with that quick, appreciative curve. Then you’re 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 he’s 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.

You’re spinning plates, charming guests, redirecting disasters before they sprout teeth, all without breaking stride. He’s the spectator who notices your every pivot, every little flicker of irritation you think you’ve buried. He catches your shoulder, hour later, as you pass by him. Clipboard in hand, no sign of a dinner plate. “When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t pure stress?” he presses. 

“I’m fine,” you tug away from his grip, already halfway to the florist.

Oscar is not fine with that answer. “That’s not a binding statement. You can’t just say ‘fine’ and have it hold up in court,” he bites out. 

You keep moving. Rookie mistake. Two minutes later, he’s in your path again, armed with a small plate stacked like a peace offering except it’s more like evidence in a trial. “Eat,” he commands. 

“Oscar, I have a million—”

“Eat.”

Your team, the same people you’ve been barking orders at all evening, suddenly finds themselves with front-row seats to a public hostage negotiation. There’s a ripple of laughter when he steps in closer, lowering his voice but not his resolve. “I’ll wrestle you,” he threatens. “Don’t test me.”

You glare, equal parts exasperation and disbelief. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. Happily. In front of all these people.”

The absurdity hangs between you, but there’s 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 that’s part defeat, part reluctant gratitude.

“There,” he says, smug as anything. “Miracle worker status revoked until you prove you can keep yourself alive.”

You roll your eyes, the corner of your mouth betraying you. A ghost of a smile, there and gone, meant for him alone. Then you’re off again, clipboard in hand, spinning back into the chaos like you were never gone. Except now, he knows you’ll make it through the night without fainting.

It’s not even up for debate: you save the rehearsal dinner. There’s 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 Oscar—cool, composed Oscar—has 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, that’s my girl. 

It takes him a minute to realize you’re not in the room. Which is odd, considering you’ve been the gravitational center of the evening all night. But Oscar knows your habits, where you’d 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 you’ve always loved, their scent carrying just enough to soften the night air. You’re not doing anything grand. You’re standing there, hands loose at your sides, shoulders relaxing for the first time all evening.

He keeps his voice low. “Just checking in,” he says lightly as a way of introduction. “Making sure you’re still breathing.”

You glance over, smile faintly. “Still breathing.”

“Good.” He takes a step back like he’s about to retreat, because maybe you came out here to be alone and he’s never wanted to be the person who ruins that for you.

But then you say, “You don’t have to go. I never mind if it’s you.”

Oh. Well. That’s… unfair.

Regardless, he stays, sliding into place beside you like it’s 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 it’s 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. You’ve got both hands on the wheel like a model citizen, which is funny considering you’re ten over the limit. Oscar, meanwhile, is in the passenger seat, laptop balanced on his knees, looking like he’s running a hedge fund instead of answering three mildly urgent emails.

“This is the part where I remind you,” you say, glancing at him, “that you volunteered for this.”

“I recall being threatened with cake withdrawal if I didn’t.”

“That’s volunteering.”

He snorts, not looking up from the screen. “That’s coercion with frosting.”

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 people’s pitch-perfect.

“So,” you say, eyes still on the road, “how’s it feel knowing you’re basically my unpaid intern for one more week?”

“I’ve had worse bosses,” he says. Then, after a beat: “Though none of them yelled at me for holding a bouquet wrong.”

“That bouquet was worth more than your rent.”

“And yet you trusted me with it.”

“Desperate times.”

He finally looks up, catching the faint curl of your mouth. It’s the kind of almost-smile that makes him close the laptop. Not because the emails are done, but because you’re 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 isn’t the worst gig he’s 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. “Divorce,” you announce, like you’re pointing out a roadside attraction.

Oscar glances out at the sprawling neighborhoods. “We’re really doing this now?”

“Better now than during the vows,” 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 hasn’t even started. “Sometimes it’s the right call,” he says simply. “Two people know they’re not good together anymore—why drag it out?”

“Because you can fix things,” you counter, eyes steady on the road. “People just don’t try hard enough. They quit when it’s inconvenient.”

“That’s not quitting, that’s self-preservation. Staying miserable just because you swore a promise?” Something inside him churns. “That’s not noble, that’s masochism.”

You throw him a sidelong glance, half amusement, half challenge. “Wow. Remind me never to marry you.”

Damn. “Don’t worry,” he says, his jaw working in that careful way that means he’s holding back sharper words. “Mutual self-preservation.”

It should come off as a joke. It doesn’t. 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. He’s 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 it’s personally responsible for the last thirty minutes of conversational shrapnel. You’re already slipping on that brittle, party-ready smile—something shiny to hide behind—when he reaches across and catches your wrist.

“Hey,” he says, soft but pointed, as if he’s trying to sneak past your guard without setting off alarms. He’s a prideful man, but his pride is a sand castle when it comes to your tsunamis. “I’m sorry.”

Your eyes flick down to where his hand holds you, then back to his face. It’s the kind of look that could be filed under ‘Neutral’ but is definitely under ‘Weapons-Grade Silence.’ He swallows, tries harder. “Anybody would be lucky to marry you.”

The silence deepens. If it were a drink, it’d be straight whiskey, no ice. So he keeps going. “You’re smart. You’re funny—though 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 it’s trendy. You’d be the kind of bride who—” He stops, recalibrates. “—who makes the whole marriage thing actually look worth it.”

“You really think that?” you ask, voice small with disbelief. 

Oscar nods. “I’ve never lied to you,” he says delicately. “I’m not about to start now.”

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. It’s 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. 

The front door to your house swings open before you’ve 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 doesn’t even dip.

“Oscar, love,” she says, already pulling him in to dole out the same bone-crushing embrace. “You’ve gotten taller.”

He hasn’t. Not since he was sixteen. But he grins anyway. “And you’ve gotten better at lying.”

She swats his arm in that way that means she’s pleased. Your dad’s 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 you’d like but more than you can forget.

“Good to have you back, son,” your dad says, and Oscar pretends it’s dust in his eye. 

He’s been ‘son’ since he started hanging around after school, eating whatever biscuits your mum pretended were ‘for guests’. 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 mum’s already fussing over both of you, asking if you’ve 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 you’re divested of your coat. It’s that look—shared history folded neatly between you—that says he knows exactly where the biscuits are kept without being told. He could play the part of guest, but why bother? He’s been part of this script for years.

“I can’t believe you’re planning Russell’s wedding,” 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. “He was always a good fellow, that one.” 

“Still is,” you offer, sipping at your tea. “The ceremony’s going to be in town, so Oscar and I decided to stop by.”

There’s a couple more minutes of small talk. Not the forced kind, but the one that genuinely takes the stress out of Oscar’s limbs. At one point, your father asks if Oscar is dating anybody, and he nearly answers, No, sir. Too busy pining over your daughter. 

You excuse yourself to go grab some of your clothes from your bedroom. Oscar stays with your parents because they’re some of his favorite company, really. Amicable, easygoing, welcoming of his dry personality. There’s a lull in the conversation when you leave, but your mother cheerfully picks it up once the sound of your footsteps fades.  “How’s work, Oscar?” she asks. 

“Same old, same old,” he responds. “Last week, I had to help a couple settle on who gets to keep the Roomba.” 

Your mother laughs. Your father cracks a smile. Oscar thanks every higher power that led him to you, led him to them. 

“Say, son,” your father says suddenly, his voice lowering ever so slightly. Like he doesn’t want to be overheard. Oscar has to lean in to hear. He’s still halfway through a smile when your father asks in a whisper, “Do you think we could have one of your cards?”

Oscar’s grin freezes. 

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 parents’ marriage dissolve. Oscar sees you in his mind’s eye—bright smile, wide eyes, the way you used to say, I believe in true love because of my parents. 

He knows why they’d ask him. He knows. He’s 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 he’d said. They’ve trusted him enough to let him crash on this couch when his parents were being messy; they’ve trusted him to be your best friend, your next door neighbor, your go-to for everything in life. 

He’s not about to take their trust for granted. “Yeah,” he manages, fumbling for his wallet. “Yeah, yeah. Of course. Here.”

For the first time ever, Oscar’s fingers tremble as he hands his card over. 

Oscar spends the morning pretending he isn’t in the way. It’s not difficult; you’re preoccupied enough with hair and flowers and a checklist that’s longer than most depositions. He’s used to being told where to stand, when to speak, what papers to file. Here, you don’t tell him anything. You just move, efficient and elegant, and he hovers, cosplaying background furniture that has opinions it won’t share.

It should feel like relief. Finally, a day where you don’t conscript him into service. Instead, it gnaws. The silence from last night’s 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 don’t. 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, it’s you. Then he thinks: not today. Maybe never.

You catch him staring. He’s never as subtle as he believes himself to be. “What?” you ask, not unkindly, but with that edge that suggests you’ll only allow a five-second detour from your warpath.

He shakes his head. Lies like it’s his job, because today it is. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Your eyes linger, suspicious, as if you can smell the fabrication. But then someone calls your name, another fire to put out, and you’re gone, swallowed back into the swirl of pre-ceremony chaos. Oscar exhales slowly. Fine. That’s what he said. That’s what he’ll keep saying. Even if it’s the biggest lie of the day, and that’s including the ‘for better or worse’ someone else is about to recite.

It’s an hour before go-time when chaos gets a name and a face: George’s mother, flustered, red-cheeked, eyes darting. A hawk that’s lost its prey. She corners you near the catering table, voice pitched in a whisper that carries far too well. “I can’t find George.”

Oscar’s standing two feet away, holding a cup of terrible coffee, and he honestly thinks he’s misheard. You stare at George’s mother, steady but pale. “What do you mean you can’t find him?” you grit out. 

“He’s not in his room. I thought he was with his groomsmen, but they haven’t seen him either. He’s just—gone.”

Oscar feels the floor shift under everyone’s 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 don’t. Your jaw is tight, your eyes are already flicking through contingency plans like cards in a Rolodex. “Okay,” you say, voice clipped but calm. “Nobody tells Carmen. Not yet.”

George’s 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 he’s not letting that storm break.

“I’ll go,” Oscar says, stepping in front of you. “You stay here. Keep things steady. I’ll find him.”

“You?” Your brow arches. “Oscar, you don’t even know where to start.”

“I’m a divorce attorney,” he counters. “Missing grooms are basically my clientele-in-training.”

Your lips twitch, but you shake your head, unconvinced. “This isn’t funny.”

“Wasn’t trying to be,” he says, softer now. He lowers his voice, just for you. “You’ve got enough on your plate. Let me handle this one.”

There’s 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. “Fine. But call me the second you find him.”

“Scout’s honor.” 

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, he’s more rattled than he’ll admit. George better be hiding somewhere stupid, Oscar thinks, because if not, he’s not sure what the hell he’ll 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 he’s 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, well—case closed.

He stops in front of the carved wood door, ancient and foreboding, and clears his throat. “You know, George, these are usually reserved for sins. Unless you count hiding from your own wedding as one.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, muffled through the screen: “Go away, Oscar.”

“Tempting,” Oscar says, shifting his weight. “But Carmen’s about fifteen minutes away from suspecting you’ve been abducted by rogue groomsmen. I figured I’d head that off. So here I am.” He leans against the booth, arms crossed, looking casual enough that no one would suspect his stomach is twisted into knots on the bride’s behalf. “Mind letting me in on why you’re pulling a Houdini in a church of all places?”

The wood groans faintly as George shifts. He doesn’t open the door, but his voice comes clearer now. “I love her. I do. That’s not the problem.”

Oscar arches a brow even though George can’t see his face. “Funny. Usually when people vanish before the ceremony, that’s exactly the problem.”

George exhales, shaky, almost embarrassed. “I’m not scared of marrying Carmen,” he reasons. “I’m scared of… everything after. What if it goes wrong? What if I wake up in ten years and I’ve failed her? I keep thinking about what you said—that sometimes divorce is the kindest option. What if we end up there?”

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. “George, you’re asking the guy who pays rent watching marriages implode in real time. And yet—even I know fear isn’t a reason to bolt. If it were, no one would walk down the aisle, ever.”

The booth goes quiet, save for George’s breathing. Shallow, uneven, like he’s bracing for a blow that doesn’t come.

Oscar taps the wooden frame with his knuckle, then presses on, surprising even himself with the earnestness creeping into his voice. “Look. Divorce isn’t proof of failure. It’s proof that people tried. Tried hard, even,” he says. “And yeah, sometimes it doesn’t work out. But that doesn’t make the trying worthless. If you love Carmen—and I know you do—then marry her. Not because it’s risk-free. Because she’s the person you want to take the risk with. That’s the point, isn’t it? You’re not promising perfection. You’re promising to try.”

Another pause stretches out, thick with doubt and something else. Hope, maybe. Then George, softly: “You actually believe that?”

Oscar huffs out a laugh, low and dry, as though he can’t quite believe himself either. “Don’t spread it around. Ruins my reputation. But yeah. I believe it.”

The latch clicks, tentative but decisive, and the booth door eases open. George steps out, white-faced but steadier, like someone who’s 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. “Now. Let’s get you married before Carmen figures out I let you stall in a confessional,” says Oscar. “Do you know how quickly she’d kill me for that?”

George manages a thin, grateful smile, the kind that says the panic hasn’t vanished but at least it’s not steering the ship anymore. “Thanks, Oscar,” the older man says shakily. 

Oscar grins in return, steering him toward the nave where the light spills like a reminder of what’s waiting. “Don’t thank me yet. I plan on charging for emotional labor. Weddings bring a premium, you know.”

By some miracle, they arrive at the wings of the church just as the final notes of the prelude swell. And then you’re 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 it’s as good as a confession. Oscar covers it the only way he knows how: by pretending it didn’t 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 Oscar—traitor that he is—finds his gaze drifting. He tells himself he’s just checking that you’re still in position, orchestrating with your clipboard and muttered commands, invisible yet entirely in control. But the truth is simpler. He can’t stop looking at you, looking for you.

Everyone else sees Carmen gliding down the aisle, but Oscar sees the invisible current you’re steering beneath it all. He catches the curve of your profile in the soft light, the way concentration sharpens your features, the way you’re 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 aren’t 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 it’s enough.

There it is: the moment he’s been avoiding like a hairpin curve in the rain. He imagines it. What it would be like if this weren’t 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 aren’t 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.

There’s nothing that Oscar has wanted more in his life. 

The reception is a blur of clinking glasses, distant laughter, and Carmen’s veil catching the light as if it’s made of spun sugar. Oscar’s been lurking at the edges, the way he always does when there’s too much spectacle. Half amused, half bored, wholly aware that he doesn’t 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.

“Eat,” you say, shoving one plate into his hands. “Consider it your reward for saving the wedding.”

Oscar glances at the heap of chicken skewers and roasted vegetables. “Saving the—what?” 

“George told me.” You spear a potato wedge, casual, as if you’re not detonating small bombs in his chest. “About the confession booth. About what you said. He was nervous, but you got him back in time. You saved the day.”

Oscar makes a noise somewhere between a scoff and a cough. “I didn’t save anything. I just—” He waves his fork, hunting for the right word. “Talked. That’s all. People talk. Sometimes they get married after.”

You grin, leaning just slightly into his space. “Don’t be modest. Admit it,” you say, lofty despite your obvious exhaustion. “You believe in marriage now. Or at least you believe George and Carmen will make it. Which means I win.”

“Win what?” he asks, though he already knows. 

“Our little contract.” You pop the potato wedge into your mouth, smug. “You said divorce was sometimes the kindest option. I said anything can be fixed. Guess who was right?”

Oscar stares at you over his fork, chewing slowly, deliberately, like he’s buying himself more time than the bite of chicken really requires. His brain is yelling don’t give her the satisfaction. His chest, annoyingly, is yelling something else entirely. Something softer, warmer, unhelpful. Finally, he sighs, long-suffering, as if you’ve dragged this out of him against his will. “Fine. Maybe you won. A little.”

“A little?” You tilt your head, eyes bright with victory. “That’s all I get?”

“That’s all anyone gets.” He shrugs, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Don’t push your luck.”

You laugh, low and genuine. What Oscar doesn’t quite say is that he will always, always let you win. That’s 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 you’ll never say aloud. Oscar’s 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 don’t 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 he’s 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 he’s 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 doesn’t. She never says it, but he knows. 

You’re bent over, slipping your heels off, when you say his name. Soft, but not casual. Never casual. “Oscar.”

He looks up, and there it is again. That pull he’s 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 background—mundane details that, somehow, are staging the most dangerous moment of his life. He’s supposed to be on the couch. He’s supposed to brush his teeth with the travel toothbrush in his bag and scroll his phone until sleep finds him. He’s 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 didn’t.

Because apparently tonight is the night the universe cashes in on all his self-control, you both lean in. At the same time, like you’ve rehearsed it in some dream. Which, to be fair, he has dreamed off. More than once.

Oscar kisses you the way he’s wanted to since high school: certain, careful, a little incredulous that it’s real. 

The hallway smells faintly of laundry detergent and floor polish, a deeply unromantic backdrop, but none of it matters. Not when you’re 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 he’ll 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.

Oscar’s never been one for clichés. He scoffs at them, actually. Rolled eyes, muttered commentary, the whole bit. But standing in this hallway, lips pressed to yours like he’s been holding his breath for years, he has to admit: it feels like the biggest cliché of all. Dream come true, corny title card and everything. And worse, he doesn’t 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. That’s the word. He’s greedy for this, for you, for the taste of champagne still lingering on your lips, for the warmth of your skin beneath his hands. He’s everywhere at once. Your waist, your shoulder, the back of your neck. It’s as if he can make up for lost time with sheer persistence.

“Careful,” you murmur, tugging back just enough to breathe, your smile brushing his jaw. “We have to be quiet. My parents—”

“Are asleep,” he interrupts, already chasing your mouth again. God, he’s shameless. He knows it. He can’t 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 don’t. You never do. “Oscar,” you whisper, but it’s not really a warning. More like an acknowledgment of the obvious: he’s lost the plot entirely.

“Don’t care,” he gasps, his words swallowed in another kiss. And it’s true. He doesn’t 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 he’d 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; he’s mapping a country he’s only ever seen on postcards. “You’re ridiculous,” you say softly, but your hand curls into his shirt like you’d rather die than let him go.

Ridiculous, sure. But finally, gloriously yours.

Oscar doesn’t so much lead you into the living room as stumble you both there, mouths still fused. He’s not watching where he’s 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 he’d prefer.

You break the kiss with a laugh that sounds like an apology and a scolding rolled into one. “Watch it, loverboy.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, already trying to find your mouth again. Priorities.

But you’re ducking out of reach, bending down with a groan. “I have to pick this up before my mom sees.”

On the floor: your mother’s purse, which, apparently, had been balancing on the edge of the console. Now it’s 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 you’d just stay still for two seconds—

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. “Oscar,” you whisper, too soft and too sharp all at once, “why is your calling card in my mom’s purse?”

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 don’t come. They stick in his throat, immovable, like the lie itself refuses to be born. He’s never been able to lie to you. 

He swallows. You’ve already noticed. The way his mouth opens, closes. The way his gaze falters, his shoulders stiffen. He’s physically incapable of bluffing his way out of this one.

How cruel. Oscar’s had you for all of five minutes, and he’s already lost you. 

Morning smacks Oscar in the face with fluorescent train lights and the smell of too many bodies packed into too small a car. He hasn’t slept much. Lando’s 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 he’s been KO’d several rounds already.

He grips the overhead rail, lets the train sway him, tries not to think too hard. You hadn’t given him the chance to explain last night. No surprise there, really. Once your temper hit full throttle, he knew better than to argue. You’d all but shoved him out the door, your voice sharp enough to cut, and he hadn’t blamed you. Not then. Not now. Still. He’d 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 you’ve cooled off, once you’re back in your own apartment, once the everyday routine pulls you out of last night’s orbit, you’ll let him get a word in. A single word. Maybe two, if he’s lucky. He clings to that possibility, because the alternative is not something he’s 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. He’s tired, sure, but more than that, he’s emptied out. All the sharp edges of last night hollowed him clean. Still, there’s the faintest thread of hope wound through the exhaustion. Thin, stubborn, irritatingly resilient. Hope that when the city resets the board, when you’re standing across the hall from him again instead of kicking him out of your parents’ house, maybe—just maybe—you’ll let him explain. And maybe—just maybe—you’ll still want to kiss him after.

Except Oscar doesn’t 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 you’re 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. There’s a limit to how pathetic he’s 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 it—him fumbling with your lock, you catching him in the act, your fury doubling—he swears under his breath and shoves the key deeper into his drawer. No. That’s a line even he knows not to cross.

He’s going insane. Objectively, medically insane. Which is probably why Frederik notices first. Frederik, whose head is usually so far in case law he wouldn’t notice if the office caught fire, raises an eyebrow over the rim of his glasses when Oscar misses a joke. “You’re distracted,” he says, crisp as a verdict.

“I’m fine,” Oscar replies, which is lawyer code for I’m not fine, but I’ll bury it under paperwork until it suffocates.

Mick joins in later, plopping down on the edge of Oscar’s desk with all the grace of a Labrador. “Mate, you look like you’ve been ghosted. Or worse. Like, haunted.”

“I’m not haunted,” Oscar says, flipping through a stack of briefs. “I’m working.”

“Sure,” Mick says, leaning back. “By which you mean obsessively rereading the same contract clause and pretending it says something different.”

Oscar doesn’t rise to it. He just keeps highlighting, keeps annotating, keeps pretending the silence next door isn’t 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 city’s 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 shouldn’t. 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. “Evening, Oscar,” she says like it’s any other day, like the universe isn’t rearranging itself in front of him. “Hot one today.”

He forces his jaw to work. “Yeah. Hot.” His eyes flick up toward your windows, where curtains flutter as a box is carried out. He’s stuck somewhere between disbelief and nausea. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, didn’t she tell you?” Monica’s tone is casual, bordering on amused, which makes him want to laugh in a way that isn’t funny at all. “She decided yesterday. Very quick decision. Signed the paperwork online. I guess she wanted to move fast.”

Yesterday. As if one day of silence hadn’t been enough, now you’ve escalated to disappearing acts. He’s not sure if it’s impressive or cruel. Possibly both. He manages a stiff nod, tries not to let the panic show. “Right. Sure. New beginnings.” He even hears himself chuckle, though it sounds deranged. 

Monica just smiles, unaware she’s chatting with a man whose internal organs have just staged a walkout. As soon as she’s 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 hasn’t 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 he’s 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 isn’t a man prone to grand gestures—he hates the very idea of them—but tonight, it’s either that or let the silence swallow him whole. 

He starts knocking on doors. Not literal ones at first: your parents’, who give him puzzled looks and say they haven’t seen you since the wedding. Mutual friends, who shuffle and hedge, clearly uncomfortable. He feels like a cop working a missing-persons case, only he’s the suspect too. It’s not a great look. By the time he reaches Hattie’s building in the East Village, he’s half-ready to abandon the whole thing. It’s ridiculous. It’s invasive. It’s—

Hattie opens the door. And freezes. Which is not promising.

Oscar narrows his eyes. “Evening.”

“Uh,” she says, drawing herself up. “Now’s not… the best time.”

He tilts his head. “Not the best time, or not the best lie?”

Hattie flounders, which is confirmation enough. She tries blocking the doorway with her very average wingspan, and for a moment it’s almost funny. Almost funny. Except Oscar’s not in a laughing mood. “Hattie,” he says, tone flat enough to iron shirts on. “Move.”

“Maybe you should, I don’t know, call first—”

“I’ve called. Repeatedly. Voicemail loves me. Move.”

She sighs, glances back inside, then mumbles something that sounds like, “You owe me,” before stepping aside. There you are. Not a mirage, not a voicemail greeting, but you. Sitting on her couch like you’ve been waiting for this inevitable ambush.

Hattie claps her hands together, way too brightly. “Well! Groceries don’t buy themselves. You two—have fun.” She’s 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. He’s not sure whether to laugh, curse, or just admit he’s terrified. But at least now, finally, there’s no more hiding.

He doesn’t even get a chance to sit down before it begins. You’re already tense in the armchair, arms folded like shields, eyes sharp enough to cut through drywall. He knows that look. He’s been on the receiving end since high school debates and who gets the last slice of pizza. Only this time, it feels nuclear. “You’re fucking crazy,” Oscar blurts before he can stop himself. Smooth start. “Who just… impulsively moves out like that?”

Your scoff is immediate, vicious. “Says the man who can’t tell the truth to save his life.”

Oscar’s stomach lurches. “That’s not—” He stops, rubs a hand over his face. “Okay, fine, I should’ve explained. But you didn’t even give me the chance.”

“Oh, please.” Your voice wavers, but your glare doesn’t. “What 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?”

“You don’t understand,” he tries again, softer this time.

“No, you don’t!” The words hit sharp, but your voice cracks, and that’s what undoes him. Your arms drop, your face crumples, and suddenly you’re not furious—you’re devastated. “I trusted you, Oscar. And to find that card—of all things—in their house—” Your throat catches. “Do you have any idea what that felt like?”

He does. He knows, because it’s 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.

“Hey,” he says, stepping forward, almost tripping over Hattie’s rug in his rush. “Don’t—don’t do that.” His hands hover for half a second before instinct wins and he cups your face, thumbs brushing at skin that’s already too damp. “Don’t cry. Not because of me.”

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 doesn’t think he’s ever been called this many names in such a short span of time. Impressive, really. You’re snapping at him like it’s an Olympic event, and he’s barely keeping up. Liar, coward, snake—he’ll admit some of those fit on bad days, but not tonight. Not with this hanging over both of you.

He’s 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, “It wasn’t for them.”

You freeze, tears clinging to your lashes. “What?”

“It wasn’t for your parents,” Oscar says again, slower this time. Delicate in a way he never is. “It was for your aunt Robin. She’s the one going through the divorce. Not them.”

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.

“Aunt Robin?” Your voice cracks in a way that guts him. “She’s—no, she can’t—”

Oscar pulls you against him, arms awkward at first until they’re not, until he’s just holding you as tightly as he knows how. “I know,” he murmurs into your hair. “I know. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you. They didn’t want me to tell you.”

You sob, raw and messy, and it makes his chest ache in ways he doesn’t have names for. “Why wouldn’t they tell me? She’s—she’s family. She’s—”

“They thought you’d take it hard. Which, for the record, you are.” He tries for levity, for that thin thread of dry humor, but his voice wavers under the weight of your crying. “See, they weren’t wrong.”

You shove weakly at his chest, tears wetting his shirt. “Not funny.”

“At least it’s not your parents. That has to count for something, right?”

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 doesn’t know what else to give you except this. His arms around you, his voice low in your ear, and the unshakable truth that he’d rather be here, in this mess with you, than anywhere else.

Oscar is not a natural caretaker. He’s many things—competitive, argumentative, occasionally insufferable—but nurturing isn’t usually in his wheelhouse. Yet here he is, tripping over Hattie’s 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 he’s supplying a survivor of some great tragedy, which, to be fair, is more or less how the evening feels.

You’re 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 you’d 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.

“Don’t say anything,” he warns, settling beside you.

“I wasn’t going to,” 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 it’s dizzying. Maybe he can breathe again.

“I may have overreacted,” you say after a pause, voice small, almost hidden in the fabric of his shirt.

“Oh, you definitely did,” 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 doesn’t 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 doesn’t move, doesn’t risk ruining it. He just holds on, staring at the muted flicker of Hattie’s TV screen like it might explain how he got here.

“We’ll figure it out,” he mumbles, already running in his mind what contracts will be needed to get your apartment back. 

“Promise?” you say in a small voice. 

Oscar doesn’t make promises. Regardless, he says, “Promise.” 

“Already? You rented it already?”

Monica, unbothered as ever, flips through a clipboard as if she’s 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? “The waitlist for a one-bedroom in this neighborhood is longer than my patience for tenants who don’t read their lease agreements,” says Monica. “The minute she canceled, it was gone.”

You’re 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; he’s catalogued them like constellations. Because he has absolutely no filter left, because watching you unravel is unbearable, he blurts, “You should just move in with me.”

Silence follows. Even Monica looks up from her clipboard, eyebrows creeping toward her hairline.

You glance at him, stunned. Panic attack forgotten. “What?”

“You—uh—” He clears his throat, already regretting every life choice that’s led him here. “You should move in. With me. Temporarily.”

Your mouth opens, then closes again. Oscar swears he can hear the static of your brain short-circuiting. “That’s… we can’t do that.”

“Is it?” he shoots back, half defensive, half desperate. “You need somewhere to live. I have space. You like mocking my furniture choices anyway, so—perfect opportunity to do it daily.”

Monica makes a low sound, something suspiciously like a laugh, before retreating into her office. Great. Now it’s 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 it’s trying to make a break for it.

Finally, you manage, “It’s not a bad idea.”

“It isn’t,” he says, relief slipping in, “it’s just until you work things out.”

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 don’t mean much when you’re dragging a suitcase through his apartment door.

You barely look around because this isn’t 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 you’ve claimed it as yours. In a way, you’ve been living here without ever officially moving in. Now it’s just… official.

Oscar tries not to look too obvious about wrestling your suitcase from you. “I’ll take that,” he says.

“You don’t have to,” 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, you’re cocooned in his bed. Oscar insists on the sofa bed, which is heroic in theory, masochistic in practice. He pretends it doesn’t 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 his—pink, leaning precariously close like it’s trying to flirt. The rotation of extra dishes in the sink, which he swears multiply when he isn’t looking. The hair tie he finds on the coffee table, which somehow feels more intimate than the kisses you still haven’t talked about.

Ah, yes. The kisses. The ones at your parents’ house. The ones that exist in his head like a neon sign he refuses to read. Every time he catches himself staring at you—when you’re rifling through the fridge, or humming along to some awful ad jingle—you glance back, and for half a second, it feels like you’re remembering too. Then you blink, and it’s gone, like neither of you is brave enough to say the word ‘kiss’ out loud.

He doesn’t bring it up. You don’t bring it up. Instead, he tells himself to get used to the toothbrush, the dishes, the hair ties, and the silence around the thing that’s 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. He’s a grown man. Sort of.

Except tonight, the sound Oscar comes home to isn’t the rustle of snack wrappers or your voice humming badly over some show. It’s the faint metallic clink of jewelry. By the time he finds you in the bathroom mirror, his lungs have stopped doing their usual job.

You’re 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. “Wow,” he says before his brain can veto it. It comes out rougher than intended. “Big night?”

You glance at him through the mirror, casual as you please. “Yeah. Bumble date.”

Oscar short-circuits. Bumble. Of all the cursed apps. He manages to school his face, though his insides are throwing chairs. “Bumble,” he repeats, nodding slowly like this is all perfectly fine, nothing to see here. “Nice. Sounds efficient.”

You arch a brow at his reflection. “You’re not allowed to make fun.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, doing his best impression of unbothered when he’s two seconds from combusting. “So what’s this guy’s deal? Wall Street? Tech startup?”

You roll your eyes, brushing past him toward the door, perfume trailing behind. “Don’t wait up.”

That’s when Oscar cracks. He doesn’t mean to. Blocking the door isn’t in the plan. Hell, he didn’t even have a plan. His arm just shoots out, palm flat against the frame, keeping you in. Muscle memory from every bad romcom he’s pretended not to watch.

You look up at him, visibly surprised. “Oscar?”

He swallows. His heart’s going way too fast for a conversation that hasn’t technically started. “You’re not… really gonna go, are you?”

A beat. Thick, tense. He can feel the edge of it pressing into his skin.

“I mean,” he fumbles, trying to backpedal without moving his arm, “you don’t even like dating apps. Remember? You said they feel like job interviews but worse.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because—” He stops, because the truth is sharp and messy and clawing its way up his throat, and once it’s out, nothing’s going back to normal. Maybe that’s the point. 

Oscar doesn’t 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.

“You’re kidding me, right?” he says, and the frustration leaks into every syllable. “You’re dressed up, in my bathroom, using my mirror, my hairspray, by the way, to go out with some stranger from Bumble? After—after what happened?”

Your brow furrows. “What happened?”

“Oh, come on.” His laugh is hollow, sharp. “We kissed at your parents’ house. Or did I hallucinate that? Should I get my eyes checked out?”

You cross your arms, steady in a way that makes him insane. “That was—”

“That was what?” He cuts in, voice cracking just enough to betray the panic beneath. “A glitch in the matrix? A fun party trick? Because if so, you’re doing a great job pretending it never happened.” He drags a hand through his hair, exasperated. “Do you know what it’s like, sharing an apartment with you while we both pretend like we didn’t nearly set the living room on fire kissing against your parents’ console?”

Your mouth opens, then shuts again. For once, blessedly, you don’t have a comeback.

He pushes on, reckless now. “I walk in here every day, and it’s—you’re here. You’re brushing your teeth next to me, stealing my socks, eating cereal out of my favorite bowl, and instead of—of this,” he gestures wildly between you, “you’re getting dressed up to go on a date with someone else? Are you insane? Because it feels like I’m the insane one!”

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 doesn’t let go, doesn’t even think to. His hand finds your waist, another cradles your jaw, and then he’s kissing you back like it’s the only thing he’s ever been any good at. Fuck law school, fuck law practice. This is what he’s made for. 

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 there’s no rebuttal to being kissed senseless.

Oscar doesn’t even realize he’s moving until the back of his knees hit the couch and he drops, gracelessly, into the cushions. Then you’re on him—literally on him—straddling his lap with a mouth that leaves him gasping. His brain, poor thing, has the nerve to short-circuit at the exact moment he’d like to be saying something smart, something definitive. Instead, he clutches at your waist. 

You pull back just long enough to get words out, breathless and sharp-edged with adrenaline. “I didn’t have a date.”

Oscar is dazed, lips still tingling. “What?”

“There was no Bumble guy. I just wanted you to finally snap.”

He stares at you, stunned into silence. Then a laugh—half disbelief, half affection—escapes him. “You’re actually insane.”

He doesn’t give you room to argue it. Hands on your hips, he flips the script in one swift, unceremonious motion. Suddenly, you’re flat on your back against the couch, his weight braced over you, his mouth finding yours again as if gravity’s a law he finally understands. There’s nothing tentative in it now. No sidelong glances or unsaid caveat. It’s all the frustration and wanting, poured into the press of his lips.

You break away for air, just barely, eyes searching his. “Oscar, what is this?” you manage to ask, urgent in that way you get when something outside of your plans happens. 

What is this? What is this? It’s holy ground. It’s his undoing. It’s him being proven wrong, and gladly taking that loss. It’s vindication for his high school self who pined over you; it’s a promise fulfilled. It’s his past, his future, and everything in between. 

“Everything,” is all Oscar manages to say in the breath between your mouths. This is everything, he means, everything to me. 

It’s not a speech, not a plan, not a neat label that explains the last however-many-years of complicated nonsense. But, for now, it’s the only answer he has, and apparently it’s 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. 

Thirty. That’s all it takes for him to get tangled in your ridiculous coffee order at the Arrow Central counter (“oat milk, not almond, but steamed halfway, and no foam unless it’s exactly two fingers thick”) and for you to waltz your way into trouble. He turns, receipt in hand, already braced for whatever chaos you’ve conjured.

There you are, all easy smiles and animated gestures. His prospective clients—middle-aged couple, big account, the kind of people he’s been carefully courting for weeks—are nodding along, visibly charmed. His heart sinks, because of course they are. You’re 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: “... and honestly, if you haven’t tried marriage counseling yet, I have a wonderful contact I could pass along.”

Perfect. Just perfect.

“Are you serious?” Oscar cuts in, sliding himself between you and the couple with a smile that looks far more polite than he feels. “Sorry, folks. She gets… enthusiastic.”

You blink innocently up at him. “What? I was just trying to help.”

“By implying my clients need therapy?” His voice is low, the kind reserved for hissing through gritted teeth in public.

“They mentioned arguing a lot,” you counter, batting your lashes as if you haven’t just torpedoed weeks of his work. “I thought I’d save them some time.”

Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose, because honestly, what’s the point of lecturing you? You’ll only twist it into something he can’t refute. Still, he tries. “They’re here to talk about life insurance beneficiaries, not—” He waves a vague hand. “—their communication issues.”

The husband, bless him, chuckles nervously. “She’s not wrong, though.”

Oscar stares at the man, briefly contemplating the possibility of evaporating on the spot. “Please ignore her,” he manages, tone bordering on pleading. 

You grin, triumphant. “See? They like me.”

“Everybody does,” he mutters, ushering you gently but firmly away from the table. Affection slips through his exasperation—because he can’t help it, he never can—but still, he leans down to whisper against your ear, voice threaded with that dangerous combination of fondness and threat. “If you ever, ever crash one of my meetings again, I swear, I’m swapping your oat milk with regular.”

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 doesn’t, but for you, he might as well be a damn saint.

“Apologies,” he tells his couple, voice smooth enough to hide the fact that he’s ready to throttle you. “That was my girlfriend.” 

And there it is. The word drops from his mouth with all the casual ease in the world. Inside? He’s practically strutting. Girlfriend. Yours truly. Filed, notarized, and legally binding, as far as he’s concerned.

The clients exchange a look, then laugh. “That’s funny,” the wife says. “A divorce attorney dating a wedding planner.”

Oscar smiles thinly. He’s heard every joke in the book: irony, opposites attract, doom-and-gloom meets happily-ever-after. He just nods and says, “We make it work.” Short, clipped, but it’s 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, don’t 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. 

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. “Congratulations,” he says. “When’s the big day?”

They share a look. The woman says, “Oh—we haven’t set a date yet.”

“Well,” Oscar says, lowering his voice just enough to feel conspiratorial, “whenever it is, make sure you get a prenup. Best gift you can give yourselves, trust me. Think of it as insurance. Romance-proof.”

The fiancée’s smile falters. The fiancé tilts his head, as if trying to work out if Oscar’s joking. He isn’t. By the time you glance up, the conversation is mid-sentence and heading straight for a cliff. “Piastri!” you snap, sliding out of your chair like a general striding into battle. “What the hell are you doing?”

He sits back, lazy grin in place. “Just offering professional advice. You know. Free consultation.”

The couple look between you and him, confusion thick enough to stir into their cappuccinos. “Do you know him?” the groom-to-be asks carefully.

“Unfortunately,” you grit out. “That’s Oscar. He’s a divorce attorney. Which explains why he’s trying to assassinate your wedding before it even starts.”

“I’m not assassinating,” Oscar protests mildly. “I’m safeguarding. Big difference.”

You plant your hands on your hips. “You’re meddling. Again.”

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. 

“In case you change your mind,” he says. His tone is maddeningly polite, as though he’s 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 you’re 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. “So,” he hears you say, as if the last sixty seconds never happened, “let’s talk about the wedding.” 

Oscar, nursing the last of his coffee, watches you slip into that peculiar rhythm you have. The one that’s equal parts dreamy and surgical. You’re talking to the couple now, voice low but animated, eyes alight. They lean in, enchanted, and Oscar can’t decide if it’s the story you’re 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 it’s sacred, like you believe in it. And maybe that’s what gets him.

It’s been a while since Oscar has been in love with you, after all.

Not that he’s admitting it aloud. He never has, never will. But it was there, once. 

Back in high school, when he’d sit two rows behind you in AP Lit and pretend he wasn’t 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 didn’t 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 that’s why it works. You stayed in love with love; he stayed skeptical. 

Present-day Oscar, watching you now as you light up over centerpieces and seating charts, feels that old pull in his chest. It’s not a sharp ache anymore. It’s softer, settled. This—what you have now—is 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 you’ve built.

The couple laughs at something you’ve said, and you beam, scribbling down notes. Capturing lightning in shorthand. Oscar smirks into his empty cup. 

Let them have their fairytale, he thinks. He’s already got his.

Hours later, Oscar’s halfway through drafting an email to a client when your shadow falls across his table. He doesn’t look up right away. He’s 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. “Problem?”

“You ambushed my clients,” you say point blank. 

“Ambushed is a strong word,” he says, clicking his laptop closed. “I prefer ‘enlightened.’”

You slide into the chair opposite him, the scrape of wood on tile sharper than necessary. “They came here to talk about centerpieces, not contingency clauses.”

Oscar leans back, folding his arms. “And 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.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You owe me for that.”

“Oh? What’s the damage?”

“Dinner tonight. My pick.”

Oscar pretends to weigh his options, tapping his fingers on the table. Honestly, for all his stubborness, he can’t remember the last time he said ‘no’ to you. “Fine,” he concedes. “But if you pick that vegan place again, I’m bringing a steak in a to-go box.”

You grin, victory claimed. “Noted.”

It’s 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. You’d kept in touch through blurry FaceTime calls and the occasional holiday reunion, but when you both ended up in New York, it wasn’t even a discussion. The apartments across the hall were open; you took one, he took the other. Done, dusted. 

And now, you’ve built a life that overlaps without ever feeling crowded. M-W-F dinners (alternating who cooks, though Oscar’s 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 other’s 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.

There’s the spare key that’s changed hands so many times it barely qualifies as ‘spare.’ There’s the unspoken agreement to check in after long days, even if it’s just leaning against opposite doorframes. And there’s 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 you’re thinking of places that will irritate him just enough to make it fun. He should probably dread it. Instead, there’s a part of him—small, quiet—that wonders if this is what people mean when they talk about home.

When it comes down to it, Oscar doesn’t actually remember agreeing to pizza. One moment, you were tucking your phone away with that mysterious, self-satisfied look you get when you’ve 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.

“Is this my punishment?” he asks as you stride ahead, skirt catching the late-summer breeze. “Public humiliation via grease stains?”

“It’s called dinner,” you toss over your shoulder, weaving through pedestrians without slowing down. “Also, you like this place.”

“I like the idea of it. I like it when I’m not wearing a suit that costs more than your entire outfit.”

“Your dry cleaner will survive. Also, rude.”

You’re an odd pair. He’s 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 he’s just standing in line for coffee. Somehow, walking side by side down these blocks, it’s never felt like a mismatch. It’s only you and him. An established unit.

The pizza joint isn’t fancy. Red vinyl booths worn to a soft shine, the faint smell of oregano and melted cheese baked permanently into the walls. It’s 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. “Same order?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You mean the one you pretend is ours but is actually just yours?”

“It’s called a compromise.”

“It’s called you ordering half with pineapple and daring me to complain.”

“You always eat it,” you counter, already flagging down the waiter.

Because it’s easier than arguing, he thinks, though he’d never hand you that victory. Besides, he’s 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. 

The order arrives, steam curling off the cheese. You’re 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. 

There’s a rhythm to this—to you. The bickering, the shared meals, the comfort in the background hum. It’s the kind of thing you don’t notice you’re missing until it’s gone. At some point, you slide the first slice his way without looking. He takes it, because he’ll take anything and everything you think to give. Even the ones he claims he doesn’t want. 

The walk back is unhurried, partly because you stop at every other storefront, and partly because Oscar doesn’t mind. Tonight’s detour is a bodega window that hasn’t 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 he’s about to say anything sentimental. He’s not that foolish.

By the time you make it back to the apartment building, you’re 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.

“Lose them again?” he says, purely for sport.

“They’re in here somewhere. Don’t act like you’ve never—”

“I have a system,” he interrupts.

“You have a filing cabinet for a personality.”

“Which is why I’m never locked out.”

You glance up, one eyebrow raised. “Except that one time—”

“That was a faulty lock,” he deapdans. “And slander.”

The keys appear with a metallic jingle, your victory grin annoyingly smug. “Saturday, movie night?”

“Depends. Is it going to be another three-hour period drama where the only action is people sighing over teacups?”

“You loved that one.”

“I tolerated it.”

“You cried.”

“Allergies.”

You unlock your door, turning to fire off one last line: “Friday dinner, Saturday movie. Don’t forget.”

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 this—key hunts, snide comments, plans penciled in without asking—and a strange steadiness roots itself in his chest. 

When he finally turns his own key, he tells himself he wouldn’t 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.

It’s Saturday night, and Oscar’s 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 “You pick the movie” was never actually a gift—it was a trap. Yet, here he is, sitting on your couch, holding a paper plate with a cupcake you’d baked, watching the title card for Maid of Honor flash on the screen.

He glances at you. You’re tucked into your corner of his sofa, skirt draped over your knees, smug in that way people are when they’ve won a battle you didn’t know you were fighting. He takes a bite of the cupcake. It’s good in that sickly sweet way. Irritatingly so. “You’re not even trying to hide your agenda,” he says.

“What agenda?” 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: “So… have your thoughts on marriage changed?”

Oscar sighs. Not just a sigh. An exhale steeped in years of repetition. “Why do I even let you pick movies?”

You tilt your head, smiling just enough to make it worse. “I’ve been good. I haven’t asked in, what, six months?”

He levels you with a look. “Three.”

“Six,” 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 cafés, 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. “You’re relentless,” he says, the slightest hint of annoyance tingeing his tone.

“And you love me for it,” you retort.

The thing is—well, yes. He does. But Oscar isn’t 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 witness’s 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.

“You can’t tell me Maid of Honor didn’t soften you up even a little,” you say, voice pitched with a teasing lilt that masks a pointed challenge.

“I can, and I will,” he replies, turning on the tap. The water hisses over porcelain, steam curling into the air. “You’re forgetting I’ve got a canned answer for this, refined over years of ambushes like tonight.”

“Oh, the infamous speech,” you say, shit-eating grin widening. “Do I get the deluxe edition tonight?”

He smiles faintly, eyes fixed on the plate he’s rinsing. “C’mon, you know this story. Grew up watching my parents’ 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.”

You grimace, as if he’s told you cupcakes are a controlled substance. “You know that’s depressing, right?”

“It’s realistic,” he says, scrubbing at a fork with the methodical rhythm of someone who likes his thoughts as tidy as his cutlery. 

Soap, rinse, stack. Facts don’t 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 that’s absurdly distracting. “Or maybe you just like having an excuse,” you say. 

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. It’s an alternate timeline he’s already filed away in the ‘unwise’ drawer. “Or maybe,” he says, rinsing the last plate and shaking off the water, “some of us don’t believe in signing legally binding contracts for feelings.”

You hum. Low, thoughtful, not remotely deterred. It’s the sound of a wheel turning, of a strategy in motion. He’s not sure if you’re trying to change his mind or just enjoying the act of cornering him. 

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. 

Instead, you lean forward, bracing your elbows on the counter, eyes gleaming with a challenge he’s already certain he won’t like. “Alright,” you say, deliberate and smug. “I’ll drop it forever if you give me one wedding.”

He freezes mid-motion, wrist dripping over the sink. “I’m sorry. One what?”

“One wedding. Just one. To change your mind.” 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, it’s 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.

“You—” He tries, fails, tries again. “You want to—” A wheeze interrupts him, laughter tearing through the attempt. “—undo two decades of carefully cultivated cynicism with… a catered buffet and bad DJ remixes?”

You smack his arm in mock outrage, which has the exact opposite effect. He’s 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.

“God, you’re—” He presses the heel of his palm to his face, still grinning like an idiot. “—ridiculous. So, so ridiculous.”

You’re still watching him with that infuriating calm, as if you’d known this was exactly how he’d react. As if the laughter was, in some small way, the point.

Oscar’s still teary-eyed and winded when he straightens, managing, “Alright, but what’s in it for me?”

The pause is telling. He can see the gears in your head stalling. You’ve clearly lobbed this dare without a single contingency plan. “What do you mean, ‘what’s in it for you’?” you ask, as though the proposition of staging an entire wedding purely to sway his opinion should be incentive enough.

“I mean,” he says, leaning back against the counter because his sides hurt too much to support him, “you’re asking me to gamble my time, dress up, and endure whatever Pinterest-board fever dream you’ve been hoarding. That’s a high-stakes request. I want terms.”

You cross your arms. “Fine. What do you want?”

You, some quiet voice chirps in the back of Oscar’s head. He assassinates its source immediately. “What do I want?” He taps his chin, feigning thoughtfulness, as he fights down a grin. “I dunno. You tell me.” 

“You can choose the movies for six months,” you try, “or I’ll pay for the next roadtrip.” 

“Wow. Nice to know what my views on matrimony are worth to you.” 

“Oscar.” 

The thought occurs to him like a lightning strike. “If I’m not convinced by the end of this wedding, you have to admit, on record,” he says, the words falling out of him in a stream, “that marriage doesn’t guarantee a happily ever after.”

Your mouth falls open. “That’s—”

“A direct contradiction of your tagline, yes,” he cuts in, feigning sympathy. “Weddings: The first chapter of your happy ever after. Catchy, but tragically optimistic.”

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 doesn’t waver. If anything, it sharpens with the smugness of someone who knows he’s cornered you. Eventually, you sigh. “Alright. You’ve got a deal.”

He extends his hand, but just as your fingers brush his, he pulls it back with a shake of his head. “No, no. Not like this. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way.”

You arch a brow. “Your way being…?”

“Contract,” he says, already heading for his desk. “Drafted, signed, possibly notarized. Witness signatures optional but encouraged.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he calls over his shoulder, tapping the spacebar to wake his laptop, “you still want to marry me off.”

Oscar knows the second you text him the address that this isn’t going to be a normal afternoon. 

The day’s plans are not in the city. It’s 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 doesn’t 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.

“You didn’t tell me this was going to be a high school reunion,” 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 that’s missing is a fake snow machine. 

You’re crouched two feet away, adjusting a loose strand of Carmen’s hair over her shoulder for ‘balance.’ Oscar doubts ‘hair balance’ is an actual, measurable metric, but you treat it with the seriousness of a NASA launch. “Hm?” you murmur, not looking at him.

“This couple. Russell. Mundt. You’re telling me this wasn’t intentional?” He leaves the question hanging in the crisp air, because if there’s one thing he knows about you, it’s that plausible deniability is rare currency.

You glance over your shoulder, catch the exact look he’s wearing—the one that says he’s about five seconds from declaring this whole wedding experiment null and void—and straighten. “Oh, no. God, no. Total coincidence. I didn’t even realize until they sent their headshots.”

“Headshots.”

“Pre-wedding portraits. Same thing.” You wave toward Carmen and George, now forehead-to-forehead beneath the draping limbs of a willow tree. “Also, you didn’t go to our prom. You can’t call it a reunion.”

“Because I had the foresight to avoid things like this,” 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 résistance—a rented golden retriever who looks like it would rather be anywhere else.

You sigh, a soft, apologetic puff that—much to his irritation—makes him feel like he’s being the difficult one here. “Look, I swear, it’s not some nostalgia trip,” you say patiently. “They booked me months ago. And they’re nice people. You’ll like them.”

Oscar’s about to tell you that liking them is irrelevant to the point when George dips Carmen again. She’s laughing into the collar of his sweater, eyes shut, the sound carrying just far enough to make the whole tableau feel uncomfortably genuine. Oscar isn’t sure he likes that. Still, there’s no denying it: they look happy. Annoyingly, effortlessly happy. If this is the couple you’ve chosen to chip away at his long-held dogmas, maybe you’re not just playing matchmaker. You’re 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, it’s inevitable. Oscar’s tall, and he’s been loitering in plain sight. George waves, cheerful in that easy, quarterback-turned-finance-guy way, and Carmen’s smile is the same one that made her prom photos look like toothpaste ads.

“You’re Piastri, right?” George says, extending a hand that could probably still throw a perfect spiral. “We thought we recognized you.”

Oscar glances at you, already halfway through winding up a polite smile. “Right,” he says, shaking George’s hand. “From high school.”

Carmen laughs. “I can’t believe this is happening!” 

Before Oscar can prepare himself, George cocks his head, all innocent curiosity. “So, how long have you two been together?”

There’s a beat—long enough for Oscar to hear the faint click of your brain short-circuiting—before you blurt, “Oh, we’re not—” at the same time he says, “Absolutely not.”

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. Oscar’s aware it sounds exactly like the sort of thing people say right before announcing their engagement. Carmen’s grin turns knowing. George looks amused in a way Oscar finds faintly irritating.

You recover first, smoothing it over with a smile that’s maybe three watts too bright. “We work together. Sort of. Different fields.”

“Opposite fields,” Oscar adds, because precision matters. Especially when one’s career revolves around making the difference between amicable and messy sound like a legal argument.

“Oh?” Carmen tilts her head to Oscar. “What do you do?”

“I’m a divorce attorney.” 

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, “So… she starts the story, and you end it?”

“Something like that,” Oscar replies, letting the corner of his mouth tip up just enough to make it unclear whether he’s joking. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches you looking at him with that expression that’s part amusement, part something softer. He tells himself it’s just your way of keeping the bit going. But the truth is, the warmth that flickers through him says otherwise, and it’s annoyingly hard to shake.

Carmen’s smile could power a small city when she says, “You should join us for dinner. Our treat.”

That’s a bold assumption. Oscar has at least four solid excuses queued up, none of them true but all perfectly plausible. He’s 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. 

And that’s it. Game over. He exhales, already hearing the gavel in his head. “Sure,” he says, because apparently his willpower folds faster than bad origami when you’re 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 they’ve been secretly training for the Olympics in synchronized infatuation. 

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 Carmen’s hand mid-story. “You two must have so much fun being friends.”

Oscar chews his food slowly, buying time, then deadpans, “Oh, sure. Nothing says fun like contract law and flower arrangements.”

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, he’s 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 it’s 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 doesn’t 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 it’s paid by the hour. The air smells faintly of takeout—someone’s stir-fry, maybe—and there’s a scuffed shoe print on the wall opposite your door that Oscar can’t stop noticing. You’re 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.

“So,” he says, drawing the word out, “that was… dinner.”

You glance up briefly, distracted. “Dinner was fine. You were the problem.”

He lets out a low laugh. “I was polite. Mostly.”

“Polite is a strong word,” you mutter, rifling through your bag. A pen falls out. A crumpled receipt. Half a packet of mints, which you don’t offer him.

“Carmen and George are intense.” He pauses, pretending to search for a diplomatic synonym, but gives up. “Like a rom-com no one asked to sit through.”

That gets you to smile before you toss out, almost absently, “What if we’d been like that? Back in high school?”

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. 

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. 

“What if,” he echoes, not quite a question, not quite agreement.

You don’t elaborate. He doesn’t press. It’s not the kind of conversation you dismantle under the buzzing light of a hallway that smells like someone else’s leftovers. Your keys finally appear. You flash him a victorious smile and an off-tune sing-song of ‘good night’ 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 it’s just the absence of your voice making the silence feel bigger. He tells himself he’s only standing there because he’s tired, that moving takes effort after a long night. But the truth is simpler: He stays because he wants to.

Oscar’s commute is, like most of his mornings, unremarkable. Train, sidewalk, coffee, the whole civilized crawl toward another day of dissolving other people’s happily-ever-afters. 

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 city’s 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. “Morning, Oscar.”

“Morning, Janine. Bribed the coffee machine yet?”

“Gave it a stern talking-to,” she says. “It’s ignoring me.”

Mick is leaning against a doorframe ahead, looking like a man allergic to chairs. “Got the Delaney file?”

“Do I look like I bring work home?” Oscar asks.

“Yes,” Mick says, without hesitation.

Frederik’s in the bullpen already, sleeves rolled, surrounded by the mild chaos of three open case files and a half-eaten muffin. “Your client’s at two,” he says.

“Perfect,” Oscar replies. “Plenty of time to remember why I chose this noble profession.”

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 doesn’t 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 don’t put something like that in a drawer. You leave it out where you can see it, and pretend you don’t know why. Eventually, he picks up the Post-It, rereading it again as though it might have changed overnight. It hasn’t. Still absurd. Still you. He delicately puts it on the stack of other Post-Its you’ve left him this past month. 

Oscar’s afternoon is the kind of appointment that would give most junior associates hives. High-asset divorce, two parties who can’t 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 they’re preparing for trench warfare.

Across from him: the soon-to-be-exes, glaring through their respective attorneys. Their glares are precise. Practiced. They’ve probably been rehearsing in the mirror. The couple—Arthur  and Dana—sit on opposite ends of the table, as if physical distance will keep the arguments from ricocheting. Spoiler: it won’t.

Dana leans forward, jabbing a finger at the paperwork. “He’s keeping the cabin? After everything? That cabin was mine before we even—”

Arthur cuts in, voice sharp. “Yours? You didn’t even like going there unless the Wi-Fi worked. Which it never did, by the way.”

Oscar sets his briefcase down, calm to the point of suspicion. “Let’s try to avoid turning this into a wireless connectivity debate,” he says. “We’re here to divide assets, not discuss rural internet speeds.”

Dana huffs, crossing her arms. “Fine. Then I want the dog.”

“You didn’t even walk the dog! I walked him every morning.”

“Because you were always up at five to doomscroll!” 

Oscar glances at Mick, who’s taking notes on the far side of the room. “Remind me why we haven’t separated visitation for the dog yet?” asks Oscar, as if it’s a matter of national concern. 

Mick shrugs. “Because they can’t agree on who buys the treats.”

“Let’s focus.” Oscar doesn’t raise his, because he doesn’t need to. 

There’s a rhythm to these sessions, and he’s the metronome. Every word measured, every concession framed as a strategic victory, every flare-up dampened with a tone that’s just this side of condescending. It works. It always works. When one spouse snaps about the other’s spending habits, Oscar doesn’t flinch. He slides in a question that reframes the conversation into something quantifiable. When the other starts to cry, he doesn’t do the sympathetic head tilt. He keeps it moving. Efficiency isn’t coldness. It’s survival.

He’s not unemotional, though he lets people think that. What he is now—this calm, this precision—was learned the hard way. Back when his parents’ divorce was a slow-motion implosion and he’d 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 it’s gone, dissolved into something sharper, more useful.

The session ends with signatures and clipped handshakes. The couple leaves without looking at each other. He’s already halfway through making notes when his phone buzzes with a text from you. lol it’s us ^^, it says. 

It’s 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 people’s 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 else’s marital collapse. He tells himself it’s fine. It’s just the job. It’s not like he hasn’t seen worse, and it’s not like he hasn’t learned how to compartmentalize. Except, of course, he has. That’s the whole problem.

Despite all his cultivated detachment, some afternoons get under his skin. Watching two people dismantle the life they built together isn’t exactly uplifting, no matter how cleanly you draft the paperwork. He knows he’s good. Clinical, precise, quick on his feet. ‘Good’ doesn’t make it pleasant, though. The arguments echo longer than he’d like, little splinters lodging in his thoughts.

By the time the train slows near his stop, he’s 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. That’s when he sees you. Through the big glass windows of Arrow Central, you’re at one of the tables by the back. Headset on, utterly absorbed. Your fingers move in quick bursts over the keyboard. You’re singing some song he can’t hear, your mouth shaping the lyrics with unselfconscious precision. 

You’re in your own world, and he’s the idiot standing on the sidewalk watching it like a scene from a movie. He doesn’t know how long he’s 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 he’s lost. 

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 he’s 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.

“You’re my logistics team.”

Oscar narrows his eyes at you across the coffee shop table. “That’s not a real job title.”

“It is if I say it with enough confidence,” you counter, already scrolling for the address Carmen sent. “Besides, I need someone to keep track of my bag while I’m helping her. You’re perfect for it.”

“Ah, so I’m a coat rack now.”

“Don’t be dramatic. You’ll be a supportive friend.”

That’s how he ends up in the passenger seat of your car, wondering if this is karmic punishment for every time he’s told a client they ‘just need to compromise.’ You’re humming along to something on the radio, blissfully unaware that you’ve 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 should’ve worn a better shirt. The sales associate greets you with an enthusiastic, “You must be here for Carmen!” 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 Oscar’s rent. “You made it!” she beams.

“You look amazing,” you say, darting toward her.

Oscar hangs back, watching you fuss with the hem, adjust the veil, squeal at the beadwork. He’s not sure what his role here actually is, aside from existing quietly in the corner like an unwilling chaperone. “How do I look, Oscar?” Carmen asks, turning toward him.

He gives a diplomatic nod. “Like you’ve single-handedly funded a Parisian designer’s vacation home.”

You shoot him a look. “Translation: gorgeous.”

“That too,” he says, because apparently sarcasm isn’t 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 he’s unqualified to mediate. Every so often you throw a comment over your shoulder, usually to mock him for looking ‘like a dad in a mall’ or to demand he fetch the sales associate. He does it, because despite his better judgment and the fact that he’s absolutely being used as a pack mule, he’s signed a contract. One supposedly life-altering wedding which is beginning to look like an unpaid internship.  

Oscar’s halfway through deciding whether the armchair in the corner is comfortable enough to nap in when Carmen says, “You should try that one.”

At first, he assumes she’s 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 you’ve already pictured it on even if you’re pretending you haven’t. You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not the bride, Carmen.”

“So? Humor me.” 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 grin—a grin that’s trouble in heels—and vanish into the dressing room without another word.

He plops down into the chair and goes back to scrolling through his phone, telling himself he’s not thinking about it, about you. He’s just killing time. That’s it. Until the curtain swishes open, and you, stepping out, say, “Alright. How do I look?”

Oscar looks up. The entire room forgets how to function. Or maybe just him. 

The dress fits you like it was built around your laugh, your shoulders, the way you stand when you’re not paying attention. Fluid lines, quiet elegance, and—God help him—a certain kind of light he’s pretty sure wasn’t in the room before. Every smart remark in his arsenal packs up and leaves without notice.

You tilt your head, waiting. “Well?”

He should say something clever, something that keeps him behind the usual fence of sarcasm. But his mouth has gone rogue.  “You look…” He stops, blinks, as though the perfect adjective might appear if he stares at the floor long enough. None does. “… sufficient.”

Carmen giggles, somehow managing to disguise it as a cough instead. 

Oscar leans back in the armchair, pretending to check something on his phone. Really, he’s watching you from under his lashes. You’re a whirl of movement. Spinning in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem, babbling to Carmen about how surprisingly comfortable the dress is. You’re lit up in a way that makes the entire boutique feel warmer, like the overhead lights are conspiring with you.

It’s 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 it’s a wedding. Your wedding. His imagination, ever the sadist, paints it in perfect detail. Your laugh, the way your hand would linger on someone’s arm, the curve of your smile. He tries—really tries—to slot himself into the groom’s position. 

But the thought catches somewhere in his chest and refuses to move, heavy and impossible. He can’t make it fit. The groom’s face blurs until it’s just… not him.

It’s pathetic. And worse, it’s dangerous. Because if he lingers too long, he’ll start wondering about timelines and choices and every stupid what-if he’s trained himself to shut down.

“Hey,” you call, jolting him back. You’re grinning at him in the mirror. “Don’t look so serious. You’re starting to scare the mannequins.”

He exhales, aims for nonchalance, misses by a mile. “I’m just wondering how you conned me into being your unpaid bridal consultant.”

“You’re logistics,” you say, prim as anything. “It’s an important role.”

“Right,” he mutters, “because when I imagined my Thursday afternoon, I definitely pictured tulle.”

You flash him that over-the-shoulder look. “Admit it. You’re having fun.”

He snorts, which is safer than answering. But his voice still comes out a little uneven when he says, “Sure. Let’s call it that.”

The wedding dress fiasco messes with Oscar so badly that he agrees to a date with somebody from law school. 

Oscar meets Isabella at a quiet Italian place in the Village, the sort of restaurant that looks like it was decorated entirely by someone’s nonna and smells like oregano and faint regret. She’s already there when he arrives, sitting at a corner table in a crisp white blouse that says she’s come straight from work, or at least wants to look like she has. “Hey, stranger,” she says, standing to greet him. Warm smile. Firm handshake. A deposition, but friendlier.

“Hey,” he says back, sliding into the chair opposite her. “You look lawyerly.”

She laughs. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”

They order wine—red for her, white for him—and the conversation falls into the easy rhythm of two people who’ve 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, it’s great. She’s great. Smart, funny, ambitious. The kind of woman his colleagues would tell him he’s an idiot not to marry. She even does pro bono work on weekends, for Christ’s 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 drifts—uninvited, annoying—to you. How you’d wrinkle your nose at the breadsticks, claiming they’re ‘too chewy,’ and then steal half of his anyway. How you’d nudge his foot under the table just to throw him off mid-sentence.

Isabella smiles mid-story. “You’re quiet. I didn’t bore you with that, did I?”

“No, no,” he says quickly, forcing his attention back. “I was just… thinking about something.”

“Hopefully something good.” She smiles, and he feels that familiar twinge of guilt. She deserves someone who’s 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 didn’t prepare them for navigating restaurant menus with too many pasta options. She laughs at the right beats, but every time she leans forward, he can’t help thinking of how you’d do it differently. Chin propped on your hand, eyes dancing like you’ve just baited him into an argument you fully intend to win. He’s not even sure if he’s comparing, or if you’re just there in the background, stubbornly refusing to leave the room.

The date survives dinner, and now they’re 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 it’s in on the joke. Isabella is easy company. That’s the problem. Easy means Oscar can’t point to anything wrong. Easy means she’ll nod at his dry remarks, volley back something light, and he’ll smile not because he wants to but because it’s what is expected. 

“So,” she says, scanning the display case of ice cream, “how’s your best friend—what’s her name again? Oh! Right.”

The sound of your name catches him like a tripwire. He blinks at the pistachio gelato as if it just insulted him. “You know her?”

Isabella nods, scooping her hair over one shoulder. “I mean, yeah. When you weren’t stressing over moot court, you were spending time with her.” There’s a half-smile there, amused but not unkind. “We all thought she was your girlfriend.”

Oscar shrugs, which is his roundabout way of stalling. “She wasn’t,” he says, barely resisting the urge to add, End of story. 

“Mm.” Isabella takes a taste-test spoon from the server. “Funny, though. Every time I run into someone from our circles, your name and hers come up in the same breath. Like a matched set.”

The truth makes him feel like the ground beneath him is shaky. He tries to deflect. “Maybe you’ve just got a bad sample size.”

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. She’s perceptive. Probably too perceptive. They both end up ordering the same flavor, which feels too much like a metaphor for him to enjoy. 

As they leave, cones in hand, Oscar wonders—not for the first time—if there’s anyone in his life you haven’t already quietly colonized.

The walk to Isabella’s 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, Oscar’s 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 she’s 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. “You want to come in?”

It’s said casually, but there’s something in her eyes. Hope, maybe. He hesitates. A fraction too long. She reads it instantly, because she’s no fool. “Right,” she says lightly, smile dimming just enough to be polite instead of inviting. “Then I’ll just do this.”

Before he can ask what this is, she leans in and kisses him. He kisses back. Well, he tries. It’s competent, technically fine, like both of them are following choreography they learned years ago. But there’s 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, “Take care, Oscar.” It’s not cold, but it’s final.

“Yeah, Isabella,” he sighs, the well-wishes sounding a lot like I’m sorry for wasting your time. “You, too.” 

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.

Oscar’s still working out how long it’ll take to get the sticky patch of melted ice cream off his hand when he unlocks his apartment and stops dead. 

You’re 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. “Oh. Hey. Hope you don’t mind—”

“What are you doing here?”

“I ran out of cereal.” You gesture at the open box on his counter, spoon already in your hand. “You had some. Problem solved.”

You hadn’t 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 they’re 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 you’re here at all. “You could’ve just… I don’t know, gone to the store?”

“Could’ve. Didn’t.” You point your spoon at him. “How was the date?”

Oscar hesitates. He could give the diplomatic answer, keep it vague, spare himself the self-awareness. Instead, he exhales, “Don’t think anything’s gonna come out of it.”

“Bummer,” you say, not missing a beat before going back to your cereal.

You change the subject, launching into some story about your mutual friend’s 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.

You’re halfway through crunching another spoonful of cereal when Oscar says it, casual in tone, not so casual in timing. “Why haven’t you dated anyone lately?”

A smile tugs at your mouth, the kind that says you’ve already got your answer and he’s not going to like it. “Because I’ve always been date-to-marry.”

He should’ve seen that coming. He did see it coming, if he’s honest. It’s 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 he’d 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. 

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. “Why? You trying to set me up with one of your friends?”

“God, no,” he says automatically, which earns him a raised brow from you. He swallows down the too-quick denial with a shrug. “They’re all idiots.”

You laugh—easy, unbothered—before 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. 

Instead, he calls out, “Good night,” and you don’t even say it back. You just wave, leaving Oscar with the bitter reminder that he never quite measured up where it mattered. 

The rehearsal dinner is not, by any stretch of the imagination, going smoothly. 

The caterer’s late, the florist’s 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 you—actually, no, he does feel bad for you—but mostly he’s impressed. You’re everywhere at once. Smoothing ruffled tempers, delegating with military precision, somehow making people think fixing the seating chart is their idea. You look like you’re 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 you’ve just single-handedly prevented an international crisis, he says, “You’re a miracle worker.”

You glance at him, brow arched. “Flattery won’t get you out of moving chairs.”

“Wasn’t trying to get out of it,” he says, but it’s a lie. A charming lie. The kind you both know he’s telling.

You roll your eyes, even though the corners of your mouth betray you with that quick, appreciative curve. Then you’re 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 he’s 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.

You’re spinning plates, charming guests, redirecting disasters before they sprout teeth, all without breaking stride. He’s the spectator who notices your every pivot, every little flicker of irritation you think you’ve buried. He catches your shoulder, hour later, as you pass by him. Clipboard in hand, no sign of a dinner plate. “When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t pure stress?” he presses. 

“I’m fine,” you tug away from his grip, already halfway to the florist.

Oscar is not fine with that answer. “That’s not a binding statement. You can’t just say ‘fine’ and have it hold up in court,” he bites out. 

You keep moving. Rookie mistake. Two minutes later, he’s in your path again, armed with a small plate stacked like a peace offering except it’s more like evidence in a trial. “Eat,” he commands. 

“Oscar, I have a million—”

“Eat.”

Your team, the same people you’ve been barking orders at all evening, suddenly finds themselves with front-row seats to a public hostage negotiation. There’s a ripple of laughter when he steps in closer, lowering his voice but not his resolve. “I’ll wrestle you,” he threatens. “Don’t test me.”

You glare, equal parts exasperation and disbelief. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. Happily. In front of all these people.”

The absurdity hangs between you, but there’s 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 that’s part defeat, part reluctant gratitude.

“There,” he says, smug as anything. “Miracle worker status revoked until you prove you can keep yourself alive.”

You roll your eyes, the corner of your mouth betraying you. A ghost of a smile, there and gone, meant for him alone. Then you’re off again, clipboard in hand, spinning back into the chaos like you were never gone. Except now, he knows you’ll make it through the night without fainting.

It’s not even up for debate: you save the rehearsal dinner. There’s 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 Oscar—cool, composed Oscar—has 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, that’s my girl. 

It takes him a minute to realize you’re not in the room. Which is odd, considering you’ve been the gravitational center of the evening all night. But Oscar knows your habits, where you’d 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 you’ve always loved, their scent carrying just enough to soften the night air. You’re not doing anything grand. You’re standing there, hands loose at your sides, shoulders relaxing for the first time all evening.

He keeps his voice low. “Just checking in,” he says lightly as a way of introduction. “Making sure you’re still breathing.”

You glance over, smile faintly. “Still breathing.”

“Good.” He takes a step back like he’s about to retreat, because maybe you came out here to be alone and he’s never wanted to be the person who ruins that for you.

But then you say, “You don’t have to go. I never mind if it’s you.”

Oh. Well. That’s… unfair.

Regardless, he stays, sliding into place beside you like it’s 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 it’s 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. You’ve got both hands on the wheel like a model citizen, which is funny considering you’re ten over the limit. Oscar, meanwhile, is in the passenger seat, laptop balanced on his knees, looking like he’s running a hedge fund instead of answering three mildly urgent emails.

“This is the part where I remind you,” you say, glancing at him, “that you volunteered for this.”

“I recall being threatened with cake withdrawal if I didn’t.”

“That’s volunteering.”

He snorts, not looking up from the screen. “That’s coercion with frosting.”

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 people’s pitch-perfect.

“So,” you say, eyes still on the road, “how’s it feel knowing you’re basically my unpaid intern for one more week?”

“I’ve had worse bosses,” he says. Then, after a beat: “Though none of them yelled at me for holding a bouquet wrong.”

“That bouquet was worth more than your rent.”

“And yet you trusted me with it.”

“Desperate times.”

He finally looks up, catching the faint curl of your mouth. It’s the kind of almost-smile that makes him close the laptop. Not because the emails are done, but because you’re 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 isn’t the worst gig he’s 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. “Divorce,” you announce, like you’re pointing out a roadside attraction.

Oscar glances out at the sprawling neighborhoods. “We’re really doing this now?”

“Better now than during the vows,” 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 hasn’t even started. “Sometimes it’s the right call,” he says simply. “Two people know they’re not good together anymore—why drag it out?”

“Because you can fix things,” you counter, eyes steady on the road. “People just don’t try hard enough. They quit when it’s inconvenient.”

“That’s not quitting, that’s self-preservation. Staying miserable just because you swore a promise?” Something inside him churns. “That’s not noble, that’s masochism.”

You throw him a sidelong glance, half amusement, half challenge. “Wow. Remind me never to marry you.”

Damn. “Don’t worry,” he says, his jaw working in that careful way that means he’s holding back sharper words. “Mutual self-preservation.”

It should come off as a joke. It doesn’t. 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. He’s 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 it’s personally responsible for the last thirty minutes of conversational shrapnel. You’re already slipping on that brittle, party-ready smile—something shiny to hide behind—when he reaches across and catches your wrist.

“Hey,” he says, soft but pointed, as if he’s trying to sneak past your guard without setting off alarms. He’s a prideful man, but his pride is a sand castle when it comes to your tsunamis. “I’m sorry.”

Your eyes flick down to where his hand holds you, then back to his face. It’s the kind of look that could be filed under ‘Neutral’ but is definitely under ‘Weapons-Grade Silence.’ He swallows, tries harder. “Anybody would be lucky to marry you.”

The silence deepens. If it were a drink, it’d be straight whiskey, no ice. So he keeps going. “You’re smart. You’re funny—though 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 it’s trendy. You’d be the kind of bride who—” He stops, recalibrates. “—who makes the whole marriage thing actually look worth it.”

“You really think that?” you ask, voice small with disbelief. 

Oscar nods. “I’ve never lied to you,” he says delicately. “I’m not about to start now.”

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. It’s 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. 

The front door to your house swings open before you’ve 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 doesn’t even dip.

“Oscar, love,” she says, already pulling him in to dole out the same bone-crushing embrace. “You’ve gotten taller.”

He hasn’t. Not since he was sixteen. But he grins anyway. “And you’ve gotten better at lying.”

She swats his arm in that way that means she’s pleased. Your dad’s 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 you’d like but more than you can forget.

“Good to have you back, son,” your dad says, and Oscar pretends it’s dust in his eye. 

He’s been ‘son’ since he started hanging around after school, eating whatever biscuits your mum pretended were ‘for guests’. 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 mum’s already fussing over both of you, asking if you’ve 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 you’re divested of your coat. It’s that look—shared history folded neatly between you—that says he knows exactly where the biscuits are kept without being told. He could play the part of guest, but why bother? He’s been part of this script for years.

“I can’t believe you’re planning Russell’s wedding,” 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. “He was always a good fellow, that one.” 

“Still is,” you offer, sipping at your tea. “The ceremony’s going to be in town, so Oscar and I decided to stop by.”

There’s a couple more minutes of small talk. Not the forced kind, but the one that genuinely takes the stress out of Oscar’s limbs. At one point, your father asks if Oscar is dating anybody, and he nearly answers, No, sir. Too busy pining over your daughter. 

You excuse yourself to go grab some of your clothes from your bedroom. Oscar stays with your parents because they’re some of his favorite company, really. Amicable, easygoing, welcoming of his dry personality. There’s a lull in the conversation when you leave, but your mother cheerfully picks it up once the sound of your footsteps fades.  “How’s work, Oscar?” she asks. 

“Same old, same old,” he responds. “Last week, I had to help a couple settle on who gets to keep the Roomba.” 

Your mother laughs. Your father cracks a smile. Oscar thanks every higher power that led him to you, led him to them. 

“Say, son,” your father says suddenly, his voice lowering ever so slightly. Like he doesn’t want to be overheard. Oscar has to lean in to hear. He’s still halfway through a smile when your father asks in a whisper, “Do you think we could have one of your cards?”

Oscar’s grin freezes. 

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 parents’ marriage dissolve. Oscar sees you in his mind’s eye—bright smile, wide eyes, the way you used to say, I believe in true love because of my parents. 

He knows why they’d ask him. He knows. He’s 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 he’d said. They’ve trusted him enough to let him crash on this couch when his parents were being messy; they’ve trusted him to be your best friend, your next door neighbor, your go-to for everything in life. 

He’s not about to take their trust for granted. “Yeah,” he manages, fumbling for his wallet. “Yeah, yeah. Of course. Here.”

For the first time ever, Oscar’s fingers tremble as he hands his card over. 

Oscar spends the morning pretending he isn’t in the way. It’s not difficult; you’re preoccupied enough with hair and flowers and a checklist that’s longer than most depositions. He’s used to being told where to stand, when to speak, what papers to file. Here, you don’t tell him anything. You just move, efficient and elegant, and he hovers, cosplaying background furniture that has opinions it won’t share.

It should feel like relief. Finally, a day where you don’t conscript him into service. Instead, it gnaws. The silence from last night’s 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 don’t. 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, it’s you. Then he thinks: not today. Maybe never.

You catch him staring. He’s never as subtle as he believes himself to be. “What?” you ask, not unkindly, but with that edge that suggests you’ll only allow a five-second detour from your warpath.

He shakes his head. Lies like it’s his job, because today it is. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Your eyes linger, suspicious, as if you can smell the fabrication. But then someone calls your name, another fire to put out, and you’re gone, swallowed back into the swirl of pre-ceremony chaos. Oscar exhales slowly. Fine. That’s what he said. That’s what he’ll keep saying. Even if it’s the biggest lie of the day, and that’s including the ‘for better or worse’ someone else is about to recite.

It’s an hour before go-time when chaos gets a name and a face: George’s mother, flustered, red-cheeked, eyes darting. A hawk that’s lost its prey. She corners you near the catering table, voice pitched in a whisper that carries far too well. “I can’t find George.”

Oscar’s standing two feet away, holding a cup of terrible coffee, and he honestly thinks he’s misheard. You stare at George’s mother, steady but pale. “What do you mean you can’t find him?” you grit out. 

“He’s not in his room. I thought he was with his groomsmen, but they haven’t seen him either. He’s just—gone.”

Oscar feels the floor shift under everyone’s 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 don’t. Your jaw is tight, your eyes are already flicking through contingency plans like cards in a Rolodex. “Okay,” you say, voice clipped but calm. “Nobody tells Carmen. Not yet.”

George’s 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 he’s not letting that storm break.

“I’ll go,” Oscar says, stepping in front of you. “You stay here. Keep things steady. I’ll find him.”

“You?” Your brow arches. “Oscar, you don’t even know where to start.”

“I’m a divorce attorney,” he counters. “Missing grooms are basically my clientele-in-training.”

Your lips twitch, but you shake your head, unconvinced. “This isn’t funny.”

“Wasn’t trying to be,” he says, softer now. He lowers his voice, just for you. “You’ve got enough on your plate. Let me handle this one.”

There’s 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. “Fine. But call me the second you find him.”

“Scout’s honor.” 

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, he’s more rattled than he’ll admit. George better be hiding somewhere stupid, Oscar thinks, because if not, he’s not sure what the hell he’ll 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 he’s 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, well—case closed.

He stops in front of the carved wood door, ancient and foreboding, and clears his throat. “You know, George, these are usually reserved for sins. Unless you count hiding from your own wedding as one.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, muffled through the screen: “Go away, Oscar.”

“Tempting,” Oscar says, shifting his weight. “But Carmen’s about fifteen minutes away from suspecting you’ve been abducted by rogue groomsmen. I figured I’d head that off. So here I am.” He leans against the booth, arms crossed, looking casual enough that no one would suspect his stomach is twisted into knots on the bride’s behalf. “Mind letting me in on why you’re pulling a Houdini in a church of all places?”

The wood groans faintly as George shifts. He doesn’t open the door, but his voice comes clearer now. “I love her. I do. That’s not the problem.”

Oscar arches a brow even though George can’t see his face. “Funny. Usually when people vanish before the ceremony, that’s exactly the problem.”

George exhales, shaky, almost embarrassed. “I’m not scared of marrying Carmen,” he reasons. “I’m scared of… everything after. What if it goes wrong? What if I wake up in ten years and I’ve failed her? I keep thinking about what you said—that sometimes divorce is the kindest option. What if we end up there?”

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. “George, you’re asking the guy who pays rent watching marriages implode in real time. And yet—even I know fear isn’t a reason to bolt. If it were, no one would walk down the aisle, ever.”

The booth goes quiet, save for George’s breathing. Shallow, uneven, like he’s bracing for a blow that doesn’t come.

Oscar taps the wooden frame with his knuckle, then presses on, surprising even himself with the earnestness creeping into his voice. “Look. Divorce isn’t proof of failure. It’s proof that people tried. Tried hard, even,” he says. “And yeah, sometimes it doesn’t work out. But that doesn’t make the trying worthless. If you love Carmen—and I know you do—then marry her. Not because it’s risk-free. Because she’s the person you want to take the risk with. That’s the point, isn’t it? You’re not promising perfection. You’re promising to try.”

Another pause stretches out, thick with doubt and something else. Hope, maybe. Then George, softly: “You actually believe that?”

Oscar huffs out a laugh, low and dry, as though he can’t quite believe himself either. “Don’t spread it around. Ruins my reputation. But yeah. I believe it.”

The latch clicks, tentative but decisive, and the booth door eases open. George steps out, white-faced but steadier, like someone who’s 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. “Now. Let’s get you married before Carmen figures out I let you stall in a confessional,” says Oscar. “Do you know how quickly she’d kill me for that?”

George manages a thin, grateful smile, the kind that says the panic hasn’t vanished but at least it’s not steering the ship anymore. “Thanks, Oscar,” the older man says shakily. 

Oscar grins in return, steering him toward the nave where the light spills like a reminder of what’s waiting. “Don’t thank me yet. I plan on charging for emotional labor. Weddings bring a premium, you know.”

By some miracle, they arrive at the wings of the church just as the final notes of the prelude swell. And then you’re 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 it’s as good as a confession. Oscar covers it the only way he knows how: by pretending it didn’t 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 Oscar—traitor that he is—finds his gaze drifting. He tells himself he’s just checking that you’re still in position, orchestrating with your clipboard and muttered commands, invisible yet entirely in control. But the truth is simpler. He can’t stop looking at you, looking for you.

Everyone else sees Carmen gliding down the aisle, but Oscar sees the invisible current you’re steering beneath it all. He catches the curve of your profile in the soft light, the way concentration sharpens your features, the way you’re 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 aren’t 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 it’s enough.

There it is: the moment he’s been avoiding like a hairpin curve in the rain. He imagines it. What it would be like if this weren’t 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 aren’t 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.

There’s nothing that Oscar has wanted more in his life. 

The reception is a blur of clinking glasses, distant laughter, and Carmen’s veil catching the light as if it’s made of spun sugar. Oscar’s been lurking at the edges, the way he always does when there’s too much spectacle. Half amused, half bored, wholly aware that he doesn’t 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.

“Eat,” you say, shoving one plate into his hands. “Consider it your reward for saving the wedding.”

Oscar glances at the heap of chicken skewers and roasted vegetables. “Saving the—what?” 

“George told me.” You spear a potato wedge, casual, as if you’re not detonating small bombs in his chest. “About the confession booth. About what you said. He was nervous, but you got him back in time. You saved the day.”

Oscar makes a noise somewhere between a scoff and a cough. “I didn’t save anything. I just—” He waves his fork, hunting for the right word. “Talked. That’s all. People talk. Sometimes they get married after.”

You grin, leaning just slightly into his space. “Don’t be modest. Admit it,” you say, lofty despite your obvious exhaustion. “You believe in marriage now. Or at least you believe George and Carmen will make it. Which means I win.”

“Win what?” he asks, though he already knows. 

“Our little contract.” You pop the potato wedge into your mouth, smug. “You said divorce was sometimes the kindest option. I said anything can be fixed. Guess who was right?”

Oscar stares at you over his fork, chewing slowly, deliberately, like he’s buying himself more time than the bite of chicken really requires. His brain is yelling don’t give her the satisfaction. His chest, annoyingly, is yelling something else entirely. Something softer, warmer, unhelpful. Finally, he sighs, long-suffering, as if you’ve dragged this out of him against his will. “Fine. Maybe you won. A little.”

“A little?” You tilt your head, eyes bright with victory. “That’s all I get?”

“That’s all anyone gets.” He shrugs, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Don’t push your luck.”

You laugh, low and genuine. What Oscar doesn’t quite say is that he will always, always let you win. That’s 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 you’ll never say aloud. Oscar’s 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 don’t 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 he’s 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 he’s 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 doesn’t. She never says it, but he knows. 

You’re bent over, slipping your heels off, when you say his name. Soft, but not casual. Never casual. “Oscar.”

He looks up, and there it is again. That pull he’s 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 background—mundane details that, somehow, are staging the most dangerous moment of his life. He’s supposed to be on the couch. He’s supposed to brush his teeth with the travel toothbrush in his bag and scroll his phone until sleep finds him. He’s 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 didn’t.

Because apparently tonight is the night the universe cashes in on all his self-control, you both lean in. At the same time, like you’ve rehearsed it in some dream. Which, to be fair, he has dreamed off. More than once.

Oscar kisses you the way he’s wanted to since high school: certain, careful, a little incredulous that it’s real. 

The hallway smells faintly of laundry detergent and floor polish, a deeply unromantic backdrop, but none of it matters. Not when you’re 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 he’ll 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.

Oscar’s never been one for clichés. He scoffs at them, actually. Rolled eyes, muttered commentary, the whole bit. But standing in this hallway, lips pressed to yours like he’s been holding his breath for years, he has to admit: it feels like the biggest cliché of all. Dream come true, corny title card and everything. And worse, he doesn’t 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. That’s the word. He’s greedy for this, for you, for the taste of champagne still lingering on your lips, for the warmth of your skin beneath his hands. He’s everywhere at once. Your waist, your shoulder, the back of your neck. It’s as if he can make up for lost time with sheer persistence.

“Careful,” you murmur, tugging back just enough to breathe, your smile brushing his jaw. “We have to be quiet. My parents—”

“Are asleep,” he interrupts, already chasing your mouth again. God, he’s shameless. He knows it. He can’t 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 don’t. You never do. “Oscar,” you whisper, but it’s not really a warning. More like an acknowledgment of the obvious: he’s lost the plot entirely.

“Don’t care,” he gasps, his words swallowed in another kiss. And it’s true. He doesn’t 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 he’d 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; he’s mapping a country he’s only ever seen on postcards. “You’re ridiculous,” you say softly, but your hand curls into his shirt like you’d rather die than let him go.

Ridiculous, sure. But finally, gloriously yours.

Oscar doesn’t so much lead you into the living room as stumble you both there, mouths still fused. He’s not watching where he’s 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 he’d prefer.

You break the kiss with a laugh that sounds like an apology and a scolding rolled into one. “Watch it, loverboy.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, already trying to find your mouth again. Priorities.

But you’re ducking out of reach, bending down with a groan. “I have to pick this up before my mom sees.”

On the floor: your mother’s purse, which, apparently, had been balancing on the edge of the console. Now it’s 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 you’d just stay still for two seconds—

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. “Oscar,” you whisper, too soft and too sharp all at once, “why is your calling card in my mom’s purse?”

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 don’t come. They stick in his throat, immovable, like the lie itself refuses to be born. He’s never been able to lie to you. 

He swallows. You’ve already noticed. The way his mouth opens, closes. The way his gaze falters, his shoulders stiffen. He’s physically incapable of bluffing his way out of this one.

How cruel. Oscar’s had you for all of five minutes, and he’s already lost you. 

Morning smacks Oscar in the face with fluorescent train lights and the smell of too many bodies packed into too small a car. He hasn’t slept much. Lando’s 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 he’s been KO’d several rounds already.

He grips the overhead rail, lets the train sway him, tries not to think too hard. You hadn’t given him the chance to explain last night. No surprise there, really. Once your temper hit full throttle, he knew better than to argue. You’d all but shoved him out the door, your voice sharp enough to cut, and he hadn’t blamed you. Not then. Not now. Still. He’d 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 you’ve cooled off, once you’re back in your own apartment, once the everyday routine pulls you out of last night’s orbit, you’ll let him get a word in. A single word. Maybe two, if he’s lucky. He clings to that possibility, because the alternative is not something he’s 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. He’s tired, sure, but more than that, he’s emptied out. All the sharp edges of last night hollowed him clean. Still, there’s the faintest thread of hope wound through the exhaustion. Thin, stubborn, irritatingly resilient. Hope that when the city resets the board, when you’re standing across the hall from him again instead of kicking him out of your parents’ house, maybe—just maybe—you’ll let him explain. And maybe—just maybe—you’ll still want to kiss him after.

Except Oscar doesn’t 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 you’re 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. There’s a limit to how pathetic he’s 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 it—him fumbling with your lock, you catching him in the act, your fury doubling—he swears under his breath and shoves the key deeper into his drawer. No. That’s a line even he knows not to cross.

He’s going insane. Objectively, medically insane. Which is probably why Frederik notices first. Frederik, whose head is usually so far in case law he wouldn’t notice if the office caught fire, raises an eyebrow over the rim of his glasses when Oscar misses a joke. “You’re distracted,” he says, crisp as a verdict.

“I’m fine,” Oscar replies, which is lawyer code for I’m not fine, but I’ll bury it under paperwork until it suffocates.

Mick joins in later, plopping down on the edge of Oscar’s desk with all the grace of a Labrador. “Mate, you look like you’ve been ghosted. Or worse. Like, haunted.”

“I’m not haunted,” Oscar says, flipping through a stack of briefs. “I’m working.”

“Sure,” Mick says, leaning back. “By which you mean obsessively rereading the same contract clause and pretending it says something different.”

Oscar doesn’t rise to it. He just keeps highlighting, keeps annotating, keeps pretending the silence next door isn’t 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 city’s 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 shouldn’t. 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. “Evening, Oscar,” she says like it’s any other day, like the universe isn’t rearranging itself in front of him. “Hot one today.”

He forces his jaw to work. “Yeah. Hot.” His eyes flick up toward your windows, where curtains flutter as a box is carried out. He’s stuck somewhere between disbelief and nausea. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, didn’t she tell you?” Monica’s tone is casual, bordering on amused, which makes him want to laugh in a way that isn’t funny at all. “She decided yesterday. Very quick decision. Signed the paperwork online. I guess she wanted to move fast.”

Yesterday. As if one day of silence hadn’t been enough, now you’ve escalated to disappearing acts. He’s not sure if it’s impressive or cruel. Possibly both. He manages a stiff nod, tries not to let the panic show. “Right. Sure. New beginnings.” He even hears himself chuckle, though it sounds deranged. 

Monica just smiles, unaware she’s chatting with a man whose internal organs have just staged a walkout. As soon as she’s 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 hasn’t 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 he’s 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 isn’t a man prone to grand gestures—he hates the very idea of them—but tonight, it’s either that or let the silence swallow him whole. 

He starts knocking on doors. Not literal ones at first: your parents’, who give him puzzled looks and say they haven’t seen you since the wedding. Mutual friends, who shuffle and hedge, clearly uncomfortable. He feels like a cop working a missing-persons case, only he’s the suspect too. It’s not a great look. By the time he reaches Hattie’s building in the East Village, he’s half-ready to abandon the whole thing. It’s ridiculous. It’s invasive. It’s—

Hattie opens the door. And freezes. Which is not promising.

Oscar narrows his eyes. “Evening.”

“Uh,” she says, drawing herself up. “Now’s not… the best time.”

He tilts his head. “Not the best time, or not the best lie?”

Hattie flounders, which is confirmation enough. She tries blocking the doorway with her very average wingspan, and for a moment it’s almost funny. Almost funny. Except Oscar’s not in a laughing mood. “Hattie,” he says, tone flat enough to iron shirts on. “Move.”

“Maybe you should, I don’t know, call first—”

“I’ve called. Repeatedly. Voicemail loves me. Move.”

She sighs, glances back inside, then mumbles something that sounds like, “You owe me,” before stepping aside. There you are. Not a mirage, not a voicemail greeting, but you. Sitting on her couch like you’ve been waiting for this inevitable ambush.

Hattie claps her hands together, way too brightly. “Well! Groceries don’t buy themselves. You two—have fun.” She’s 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. He’s not sure whether to laugh, curse, or just admit he’s terrified. But at least now, finally, there’s no more hiding.

He doesn’t even get a chance to sit down before it begins. You’re already tense in the armchair, arms folded like shields, eyes sharp enough to cut through drywall. He knows that look. He’s been on the receiving end since high school debates and who gets the last slice of pizza. Only this time, it feels nuclear. “You’re fucking crazy,” Oscar blurts before he can stop himself. Smooth start. “Who just… impulsively moves out like that?”

Your scoff is immediate, vicious. “Says the man who can’t tell the truth to save his life.”

Oscar’s stomach lurches. “That’s not—” He stops, rubs a hand over his face. “Okay, fine, I should’ve explained. But you didn’t even give me the chance.”

“Oh, please.” Your voice wavers, but your glare doesn’t. “What 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?”

“You don’t understand,” he tries again, softer this time.

“No, you don’t!” The words hit sharp, but your voice cracks, and that’s what undoes him. Your arms drop, your face crumples, and suddenly you’re not furious—you’re devastated. “I trusted you, Oscar. And to find that card—of all things—in their house—” Your throat catches. “Do you have any idea what that felt like?”

He does. He knows, because it’s 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.

“Hey,” he says, stepping forward, almost tripping over Hattie’s rug in his rush. “Don’t—don’t do that.” His hands hover for half a second before instinct wins and he cups your face, thumbs brushing at skin that’s already too damp. “Don’t cry. Not because of me.”

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 doesn’t think he’s ever been called this many names in such a short span of time. Impressive, really. You’re snapping at him like it’s an Olympic event, and he’s barely keeping up. Liar, coward, snake—he’ll admit some of those fit on bad days, but not tonight. Not with this hanging over both of you.

He’s 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, “It wasn’t for them.”

You freeze, tears clinging to your lashes. “What?”

“It wasn’t for your parents,” Oscar says again, slower this time. Delicate in a way he never is. “It was for your aunt Robin. She’s the one going through the divorce. Not them.”

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.

“Aunt Robin?” Your voice cracks in a way that guts him. “She’s—no, she can’t—”

Oscar pulls you against him, arms awkward at first until they’re not, until he’s just holding you as tightly as he knows how. “I know,” he murmurs into your hair. “I know. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you. They didn’t want me to tell you.”

You sob, raw and messy, and it makes his chest ache in ways he doesn’t have names for. “Why wouldn’t they tell me? She’s—she’s family. She’s—”

“They thought you’d take it hard. Which, for the record, you are.” He tries for levity, for that thin thread of dry humor, but his voice wavers under the weight of your crying. “See, they weren’t wrong.”

You shove weakly at his chest, tears wetting his shirt. “Not funny.”

“At least it’s not your parents. That has to count for something, right?”

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 doesn’t know what else to give you except this. His arms around you, his voice low in your ear, and the unshakable truth that he’d rather be here, in this mess with you, than anywhere else.

Oscar is not a natural caretaker. He’s many things—competitive, argumentative, occasionally insufferable—but nurturing isn’t usually in his wheelhouse. Yet here he is, tripping over Hattie’s 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 he’s supplying a survivor of some great tragedy, which, to be fair, is more or less how the evening feels.

You’re 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 you’d 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.

“Don’t say anything,” he warns, settling beside you.

“I wasn’t going to,” 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 it’s dizzying. Maybe he can breathe again.

“I may have overreacted,” you say after a pause, voice small, almost hidden in the fabric of his shirt.

“Oh, you definitely did,” 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 doesn’t 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 doesn’t move, doesn’t risk ruining it. He just holds on, staring at the muted flicker of Hattie’s TV screen like it might explain how he got here.

“We’ll figure it out,” he mumbles, already running in his mind what contracts will be needed to get your apartment back. 

“Promise?” you say in a small voice. 

Oscar doesn’t make promises. Regardless, he says, “Promise.” 

“Already? You rented it already?”

Monica, unbothered as ever, flips through a clipboard as if she’s 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? “The waitlist for a one-bedroom in this neighborhood is longer than my patience for tenants who don’t read their lease agreements,” says Monica. “The minute she canceled, it was gone.”

You’re 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; he’s catalogued them like constellations. Because he has absolutely no filter left, because watching you unravel is unbearable, he blurts, “You should just move in with me.”

Silence follows. Even Monica looks up from her clipboard, eyebrows creeping toward her hairline.

You glance at him, stunned. Panic attack forgotten. “What?”

“You—uh—” He clears his throat, already regretting every life choice that’s led him here. “You should move in. With me. Temporarily.”

Your mouth opens, then closes again. Oscar swears he can hear the static of your brain short-circuiting. “That’s… we can’t do that.”

“Is it?” he shoots back, half defensive, half desperate. “You need somewhere to live. I have space. You like mocking my furniture choices anyway, so—perfect opportunity to do it daily.”

Monica makes a low sound, something suspiciously like a laugh, before retreating into her office. Great. Now it’s 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 it’s trying to make a break for it.

Finally, you manage, “It’s not a bad idea.”

“It isn’t,” he says, relief slipping in, “it’s just until you work things out.”

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 don’t mean much when you’re dragging a suitcase through his apartment door.

You barely look around because this isn’t 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 you’ve claimed it as yours. In a way, you’ve been living here without ever officially moving in. Now it’s just… official.

Oscar tries not to look too obvious about wrestling your suitcase from you. “I’ll take that,” he says.

“You don’t have to,” 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, you’re cocooned in his bed. Oscar insists on the sofa bed, which is heroic in theory, masochistic in practice. He pretends it doesn’t 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 his—pink, leaning precariously close like it’s trying to flirt. The rotation of extra dishes in the sink, which he swears multiply when he isn’t looking. The hair tie he finds on the coffee table, which somehow feels more intimate than the kisses you still haven’t talked about.

Ah, yes. The kisses. The ones at your parents’ house. The ones that exist in his head like a neon sign he refuses to read. Every time he catches himself staring at you—when you’re rifling through the fridge, or humming along to some awful ad jingle—you glance back, and for half a second, it feels like you’re remembering too. Then you blink, and it’s gone, like neither of you is brave enough to say the word ‘kiss’ out loud.

He doesn’t bring it up. You don’t bring it up. Instead, he tells himself to get used to the toothbrush, the dishes, the hair ties, and the silence around the thing that’s 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. He’s a grown man. Sort of.

Except tonight, the sound Oscar comes home to isn’t the rustle of snack wrappers or your voice humming badly over some show. It’s the faint metallic clink of jewelry. By the time he finds you in the bathroom mirror, his lungs have stopped doing their usual job.

You’re 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. “Wow,” he says before his brain can veto it. It comes out rougher than intended. “Big night?”

You glance at him through the mirror, casual as you please. “Yeah. Bumble date.”

Oscar short-circuits. Bumble. Of all the cursed apps. He manages to school his face, though his insides are throwing chairs. “Bumble,” he repeats, nodding slowly like this is all perfectly fine, nothing to see here. “Nice. Sounds efficient.”

You arch a brow at his reflection. “You’re not allowed to make fun.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, doing his best impression of unbothered when he’s two seconds from combusting. “So what’s this guy’s deal? Wall Street? Tech startup?”

You roll your eyes, brushing past him toward the door, perfume trailing behind. “Don’t wait up.”

That’s when Oscar cracks. He doesn’t mean to. Blocking the door isn’t in the plan. Hell, he didn’t even have a plan. His arm just shoots out, palm flat against the frame, keeping you in. Muscle memory from every bad romcom he’s pretended not to watch.

You look up at him, visibly surprised. “Oscar?”

He swallows. His heart’s going way too fast for a conversation that hasn’t technically started. “You’re not… really gonna go, are you?”

A beat. Thick, tense. He can feel the edge of it pressing into his skin.

“I mean,” he fumbles, trying to backpedal without moving his arm, “you don’t even like dating apps. Remember? You said they feel like job interviews but worse.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because—” He stops, because the truth is sharp and messy and clawing its way up his throat, and once it’s out, nothing’s going back to normal. Maybe that’s the point. 

Oscar doesn’t 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.

“You’re kidding me, right?” he says, and the frustration leaks into every syllable. “You’re dressed up, in my bathroom, using my mirror, my hairspray, by the way, to go out with some stranger from Bumble? After—after what happened?”

Your brow furrows. “What happened?”

“Oh, come on.” His laugh is hollow, sharp. “We kissed at your parents’ house. Or did I hallucinate that? Should I get my eyes checked out?”

You cross your arms, steady in a way that makes him insane. “That was—”

“That was what?” He cuts in, voice cracking just enough to betray the panic beneath. “A glitch in the matrix? A fun party trick? Because if so, you’re doing a great job pretending it never happened.” He drags a hand through his hair, exasperated. “Do you know what it’s like, sharing an apartment with you while we both pretend like we didn’t nearly set the living room on fire kissing against your parents’ console?”

Your mouth opens, then shuts again. For once, blessedly, you don’t have a comeback.

He pushes on, reckless now. “I walk in here every day, and it’s—you’re here. You’re brushing your teeth next to me, stealing my socks, eating cereal out of my favorite bowl, and instead of—of this,” he gestures wildly between you, “you’re getting dressed up to go on a date with someone else? Are you insane? Because it feels like I’m the insane one!”

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 doesn’t let go, doesn’t even think to. His hand finds your waist, another cradles your jaw, and then he’s kissing you back like it’s the only thing he’s ever been any good at. Fuck law school, fuck law practice. This is what he’s made for. 

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 there’s no rebuttal to being kissed senseless.

Oscar doesn’t even realize he’s moving until the back of his knees hit the couch and he drops, gracelessly, into the cushions. Then you’re on him—literally on him—straddling his lap with a mouth that leaves him gasping. His brain, poor thing, has the nerve to short-circuit at the exact moment he’d like to be saying something smart, something definitive. Instead, he clutches at your waist. 

You pull back just long enough to get words out, breathless and sharp-edged with adrenaline. “I didn’t have a date.”

Oscar is dazed, lips still tingling. “What?”

“There was no Bumble guy. I just wanted you to finally snap.”

He stares at you, stunned into silence. Then a laugh—half disbelief, half affection—escapes him. “You’re actually insane.”

He doesn’t give you room to argue it. Hands on your hips, he flips the script in one swift, unceremonious motion. Suddenly, you’re flat on your back against the couch, his weight braced over you, his mouth finding yours again as if gravity’s a law he finally understands. There’s nothing tentative in it now. No sidelong glances or unsaid caveat. It’s all the frustration and wanting, poured into the press of his lips.

You break away for air, just barely, eyes searching his. “Oscar, what is this?” you manage to ask, urgent in that way you get when something outside of your plans happens. 

What is this? What is this? It’s holy ground. It’s his undoing. It’s him being proven wrong, and gladly taking that loss. It’s vindication for his high school self who pined over you; it’s a promise fulfilled. It’s his past, his future, and everything in between. 

“Everything,” is all Oscar manages to say in the breath between your mouths. This is everything, he means, everything to me. 

It’s not a speech, not a plan, not a neat label that explains the last however-many-years of complicated nonsense. But, for now, it’s the only answer he has, and apparently it’s 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. 

Thirty. That’s all it takes for him to get tangled in your ridiculous coffee order at the Arrow Central counter (“oat milk, not almond, but steamed halfway, and no foam unless it’s exactly two fingers thick”) and for you to waltz your way into trouble. He turns, receipt in hand, already braced for whatever chaos you’ve conjured.

There you are, all easy smiles and animated gestures. His prospective clients—middle-aged couple, big account, the kind of people he’s been carefully courting for weeks—are nodding along, visibly charmed. His heart sinks, because of course they are. You’re 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: “... and honestly, if you haven’t tried marriage counseling yet, I have a wonderful contact I could pass along.”

Perfect. Just perfect.

“Are you serious?” Oscar cuts in, sliding himself between you and the couple with a smile that looks far more polite than he feels. “Sorry, folks. She gets… enthusiastic.”

You blink innocently up at him. “What? I was just trying to help.”

“By implying my clients need therapy?” His voice is low, the kind reserved for hissing through gritted teeth in public.

“They mentioned arguing a lot,” you counter, batting your lashes as if you haven’t just torpedoed weeks of his work. “I thought I’d save them some time.”

Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose, because honestly, what’s the point of lecturing you? You’ll only twist it into something he can’t refute. Still, he tries. “They’re here to talk about life insurance beneficiaries, not—” He waves a vague hand. “—their communication issues.”

The husband, bless him, chuckles nervously. “She’s not wrong, though.”

Oscar stares at the man, briefly contemplating the possibility of evaporating on the spot. “Please ignore her,” he manages, tone bordering on pleading. 

You grin, triumphant. “See? They like me.”

“Everybody does,” he mutters, ushering you gently but firmly away from the table. Affection slips through his exasperation—because he can’t help it, he never can—but still, he leans down to whisper against your ear, voice threaded with that dangerous combination of fondness and threat. “If you ever, ever crash one of my meetings again, I swear, I’m swapping your oat milk with regular.”

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 doesn’t, but for you, he might as well be a damn saint.

“Apologies,” he tells his couple, voice smooth enough to hide the fact that he’s ready to throttle you. “That was my girlfriend.” 

And there it is. The word drops from his mouth with all the casual ease in the world. Inside? He’s practically strutting. Girlfriend. Yours truly. Filed, notarized, and legally binding, as far as he’s concerned.

The clients exchange a look, then laugh. “That’s funny,” the wife says. “A divorce attorney dating a wedding planner.”

Oscar smiles thinly. He’s heard every joke in the book: irony, opposites attract, doom-and-gloom meets happily-ever-after. He just nods and says, “We make it work.” Short, clipped, but it’s 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, don’t 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. 

And then—like fate was rooting for your downfall—the perfect opportunity landed in your lap. Practically gift-wrapped. Poker night. With the boys.

It was almost too easy. Suspiciously easy. Like the universe was setting you up. Or maybe Lando was. At this point, you wouldn’t put it past him. He probably wanted you to meet them. Probably thought you’d charm them. Probably had no idea you were about to unleash a level of chaos no friendship could survive.

You hadn’t even known Lando was bringing you until he was already dragging you through Oscar’s front door, grinning like a kid who’d just found a stray animal and decided to keep it. “I come with a plus one!” he announced proudly, like he expected applause. Like this was a party trick.

Max blinked once, slowly, like he was trying to process what he was seeing.

Charles muttered something in French under his breath that sounded suspiciously judgmental.

Oscar froze mid-shuffle, a card halfway to the table, staring at you like you were a raccoon that had wandered into a board meeting and refused to leave.

You smiled sweetly, all teeth and menace.

Oh, this was going to be delicious.

You slid into the seat next to Lando, brushing your knee against his like the clingiest, most unhinged girlfriend imaginable. The kind who already had a Pinterest board titled Our Wedding Vibes. Lando didn’t even blink. He just smiled and scooted closer, like he was encouraging it.

Perfect.

Time to cause problems. On purpose.

But apparently Max had other plans.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes gleaming with the kind of energy that only came from a man who lived for chaos. “So, Y/n…” he said, voice casual in the way a lit match is casual before it hits gasoline. “Can you remind me what you do for work?”

Oh.

So that’s how we’re playing.

This was not how it was supposed to go. You were supposed to be the one asking the questions, poking at their fragile little egos, planting seeds of doubt. Not the other way around. Not Max Verstappen leaning forward like a smug little chaos goblin, ready to dissect your entire existence with one casual question.

Your brain scrambled. What had you told Lando on your first date? Something vague. Something forgettable. Mechanic? No, that was his job. You were the dramatic one, not the liar. You didn’t plan your chaos—you just let it happen.

And then it hit you.

You flipped your hair with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no business being confident. The kind of confidence only a pathological liar—or a woman on a mission—could summon.

“Finding lost socks,” you said sweetly, voice dripping with fake innocence. “Something you’d never understand.”

Max blinked, clearly trying to figure out if you were joking or just deeply unwell.

Oscar’s mouth fell open, a card still frozen in his hand.

Charles coughed into his fist, but you saw the smile he was trying to hide.

And Lando?

Lando looked at you like you’d just solved world peace. Like you’d painted the sky. Like you were the most brilliant, beautiful, sock-finding creature to ever walk the earth.

“See?” he said, beaming. “She’s special.”

Jesus Christ.

Then you turned to the trio with the brightest, most innocent smile you could manage. The kind of smile that said I’m just curious! when really, it meant I’m about to ruin your night. You tilted your head, all sugar and sunshine, and asked sweetly, “And what do you do? You three.”

Silence.

Immediate. Catastrophic. The kind of silence that drops like a bomb in the middle of a room and leaves everyone scrambling for cover. You could practically hear the tension crackle in the air.

Lando’s head whipped toward them so fast it was a miracle he didn’t sprain something. It wasn’t just a glance—it was a full-body warning. A don’t you dare kind of look. The kind of look that said if you say one wrong word, I will run you over with my scooter and then reverse for good measure.

Max froze mid-breath, like he’d just been caught doing something illegal.

Oscar blinked slowly, like someone had unplugged him and forgotten to reboot.

Charles stared at the ceiling, lips pressed together, already regretting every decision that had led him to this exact moment. You could see it in his eyes—the quiet, desperate wish to disappear into the drywall.

Finally, Lando cleared his throat, voice a little too high, a little too fast. “Um—Max is… a streamer.”

Max turned to him, squinting like he’d just been personally betrayed. Like that’s the best Lando could come up with? Streamer? He looked like he wanted to throw a card at his head.

You bit back a grin, watching the chaos unfold like it was your favorite show. Because this? This was going perfectly.

“And Charles is a model,” Lando said with the kind of confidence that made it sound like he was listing off Nobel Prize winners. And to be fair, Charles didn’t exactly deny it. He sat up straighter, ran a hand through his hair like he was in a cologne ad, and gave a small, satisfied nod. Honestly, you couldn’t even be mad. The man looked like he belonged in a museum. Of course he was a model. Of course he was proud of it.

Then Lando turned to Oscar, and everything slowed down. You could see the exact moment panic set in. Oscar’s eyes widened just a little, his whole body tensing like he was bracing for impact. He didn’t say a word, but the message was clear: Please don’t ruin my life.

Lando hesitated for a beat. Just long enough to make it worse. Then he smiled, all charm and mischief, and said, “Oscar lives off his dad’s money. Yeah.”

Oscar’s soul visibly left his body. He didn’t even try to argue. Just sat there, blinking, like he’d been hit by a truck made of shame. Max let out a wheeze so loud it echoed off the walls, practically falling out of his chair. Charles choked on his drink, coughing into his sleeve, eyes wide with secondhand embarrassment.

And you?

You beamed. Absolutely radiant. Like a villain in a romcom who just watched her evil plan unfold perfectly. You leaned back in your chair, soaking in the chaos like it was sunshine.

“Wow,” you said, voice sweet and sharp all at once. “A streamer, a model, and a nepo baby. Amazing.”

Lando looked absurdly proud of himself, like he’d just delivered a flawless introduction. Like he hadn’t just casually thrown his best friend under the bus and then reversed over him for good measure.

Charles was still coughing—whether from laughter or sheer panic, it was hard to tell—as he reached for his drink, trying to recover some sense of dignity. “Oui, oui, very funny,” he muttered, waving a hand like he was brushing the moment away. “But at least after our last ra—”

He didn’t get to finish.

Lando kicked him under the table so hard the cards jumped. The sound was sharp, a sudden thud that made everyone flinch. Charles jolted, eyes going wide as he choked on his words—and possibly his pride.

“—our last run,” he corrected quickly, voice too high, too fast. He was sweating now, blinking like he’d just been caught cheating on a test. “Run. Jog. Morning jog. Yes.”

Max stared at him like he’d just watched a car crash in slow motion. His expression was somewhere between horrified and deeply entertained. Oscar, meanwhile, didn’t say a word. He just slowly lifted a card to cover half his face, like if he couldn’t see you, maybe you couldn’t see him either.

You narrowed your eyes, suspicion rising like steam. “Your last run?” you asked, dragging the word out. “You four run together?”

Max nodded way too fast, like he was trying to convince both you and himself. “Yes. Team runs,” he said, then paused, clearly realizing how weird that sounded. “Running team. We run. As a team.”

You stared at them.

They stared back.

And for the first time all night, you weren’t sure who was lying more—you, with your fake relationship and sock-finding job… or them, with their mysterious “morning jogs” and collective panic.

Something was going on.

“What’s the team called?” you asked, eyes wide with fake curiosity, voice dipped in sugar. You were fascinated—genuinely. Not by the answer, but by how badly they were about to fumble it.

Oscar panicked. You saw it happen in real time. His whole body stiffened, like someone had just asked him to recite the alphabet backwards under pressure. “Red. Bull,” he blurted out, like a man throwing himself on a grenade.

Lando groaned and slapped a hand over his face, dragging it down slowly like he was trying to erase the moment from existence.

“RUNNING Bulls,” Oscar corrected quickly, voice cracking. “The… running club. Obviously.”

Charles looked like he was about to cry. Not from sadness—just from the sheer effort of trying to keep up with the mental gymnastics. His eyes were glassy. His soul was leaving his body.

You smiled, sweet and slow, like a cat watching a group of mice try to build a house of cards. “I didn’t know any of you were athletic.”

Max made a sound that was somewhere between a scoff and a wheeze. His face turned red, like he was physically holding back a scream. You were pretty sure a single vein in his forehead was doing all the work of keeping him upright.

Lando, of course, was unfazed. He leaned back in his chair like he was on a yacht, slung an arm over your shoulders, and whispered, “Yeah, baby. We’re basically Olympians.”

You blinked at him.

Charles, still recovering, mouthed at Lando with wide, betrayed eyes: You owe me for that.

Oscar, who looked like he was about to combust, mouthed back: RUNNING BULLS?? REALLY??

You sat there, basking in the chaos, wondering how much longer you could keep this up before one of them cracked completely.

“So…” you said, drawing the word out like you were settling into a cozy chair. “The Running Bulls, huh?”

You didn’t even try to hide your grin. You wanted to watch them squirm.

And oh, they did.

All four of them tensed at once, like someone had hit a big red button labeled PANIC. Max’s poker chip slipped right through his fingers and clattered to the floor. Charles sat bolt upright, spine stiff as a board, like someone had yanked invisible strings. Oscar actually whispered, “Oh God,” under his breath, like he was praying for a quick and painless death. And Lando? Lando looked like he was bracing for impact, jaw tight, eyes darting between his friends like he was calculating who to sacrifice first.

“Tell me more!” you said brightly, like you weren’t actively setting fire to the room. “Like… how often do you run?”

“Every day,” Max blurted, too fast.

“Twice a day,” Charles added, trying to sound confident.

“Once a week,” Oscar mumbled, already regretting everything.

“NEVER,” Lando snapped, turning to glare at the three of them like they’d just betrayed a sacred oath. “We never run. We hate running.”

You blinked. “So… which is it?”

And that was it. The dam broke.

Max turned on Charles immediately. “You told her twice a day? What are we, military?”

Charles threw his hands up. “Better than every day, imbécile! That sounds obsessive!”

Oscar raised both hands in surrender. “In my defense, I panicked.”

Suddenly Oscar cleared his throat, clearly trying to be the adult in the room. He leaned forward a little, hands folded like he was about to mediate a peace treaty. “So… um… how’s… uh… your relationship going?” he asked, voice careful, eyes flicking nervously toward Lando like he was checking for landmines.

You blinked at him, stunned for half a second. Then you smiled. Because oh, bless him—he had no idea what he’d just done. It was like he’d handed you a microphone and a spotlight and said, Go ahead, perform. You leaned in, resting your elbows on the table, your voice syrupy sweet.

“Oh, it’s… great,” you said, dragging the word out like honey. “Actually, I was just thinking about something really important. Baby names.”

Lando froze mid-bite, his fork halfway to his mouth. His eyes widened just slightly, like his brain had short-circuited. Max fumbled his cards, nearly dropping them all over the table. Charles made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, like he couldn’t decide whether to be horrified or impressed.

Oscar blinked at you, completely thrown. “Wait… what?”

“Yes!” you said, your voice rising with excitement, like you were talking about a new hobby. “Names for our future children. I was thinking we could start with the classics, you know? Something timeless. Like Gertrude or Bartholomew.” You paused, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “Or maybe something a little more modern. Like… Moonbeam. Or Rocket.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Lando still hadn’t moved. He looked like he was trying to decide whether to laugh, cry, or fake a power outage and run. Max was staring at you like you’d just confessed to being an alien. Charles had buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. And Oscar? Poor Oscar looked like he was regretting every decision that had led him to this moment.

Lando’s jaw dropped just a little, but to his credit, he didn’t even flinch. He blinked once, then nodded slowly, like you’d just suggested ordering Thai food instead of naming your hypothetical children after celestial bodies and 18th-century explorers.

“Those are… options,” he said, calm as ever. Like this was a perfectly reasonable conversation to be having in the middle of poker night with his very normal, very judgmental friends.

You weren’t done.

“Oh! And middle names are so important,” you continued, your voice bright and unbothered, like you hadn’t just detonated a relationship bomb in the middle of the room. “We could do themes! Like animals. Or famous explorers. Or—ooh—alliteration! Penelope Penguin. Barnaby Bear. You know, something with character.”

Max choked on his drink, coughing violently as he tried to recover. Charles groaned into his hand, dragging it down his face like he was physically in pain. Oscar, poor soul, had started to slide toward the edge of his chair, eyes wide and unblinking, like he was watching a slow-motion car crash and couldn’t look away.

You turned to Lando, batting your lashes with the full force of fake-girlfriend energy. “And what do you think, Lanny?”

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even blink.

“I think,” he said, voice low and serious, “whatever you pick, I’ll love it.”

You blinked.

Your brain short-circuited.

Because—what?

That wasn’t the plan. That wasn’t the a bit. That was… something else. Something warm and soft and way too sincere for a room full of poker chips and panic.

Even you had to admit—it was too much.

────────────

DAY SEVEN

Lando had insisted on dragging you back to the art gallery. You didn’t get it. Maybe he was trying to redeem himself after the last time—when he’d loudly declared Monet was “just doing vibes” and nearly got you both kicked out by a very offended docent.

But this time… this time felt different.

He wasn’t being sarcastic. He wasn’t cracking jokes just to hear you laugh or poking fun at the art like it was some inside joke only he understood. He was quieter. More grounded. Like he was actually here, not just performing for your benefit.

You stopped in front of the same Monet as before—Water Lilies, soft and hazy and somehow still humming with life. You glanced at Lando, expecting a smirk or a snide comment.

Instead, he leaned in slightly, his voice low and thoughtful. “You know,” he said, eyes fixed on the painting, “Monet painted this while he was losing his vision. Cataracts. The colors started shifting for him. Everything got blurrier, warmer. He painted from memory, mostly. From his garden in Giverny.”

You looked at him, surprised. He wasn’t just reciting facts—he meant it. There was something gentle in the way he spoke, like he respected it. Like he understood what it meant to keep creating even when the world started slipping out of focus.

And for a moment, you forgot this was supposed to be a bit. A game. A fake relationship built on sabotage and chaos.

Your eyes widened, caught off guard. “Wait… you actually know that?”

Lando just shrugged, a small grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t smug or teasing—just soft, a little shy. “I did some reading,” he said, like it was no big deal. “Thought you’d like it.”

For a second, you couldn’t speak. Your heart did this weird little skip, like it had tripped over itself. He’d read about Monet. For you. Not for a joke, not to make fun of the art like last time. He’d actually taken the time to learn something because he thought it might matter to you. Because he wanted to understand what you liked. That realization hit you harder than you expected.

You looked at him, trying to find the right words, but they caught in your throat. “Lando… that’s… actually really sweet.”

He tilted his head, eyes warm, and reached up to gently brush a stray hair behind your ear. The touch was light, careful, like he didn’t want to startle you. “I want you to like it here,” he said quietly. “I want you to like everything… if I can make it happen.”

And just like that, the air between you shifted. It wasn’t a joke anymore. It wasn’t a game. It was him, standing there in front of you, trying—really trying—to make something feel good and safe and real.

And you didn’t know what to do with that. Not yet.

But you knew it mattered.

“It’s so beautiful,” you said quietly, eyes tracing the soft, blurred brushstrokes. The colors bled into one another like a dream, all pale blues and gentle greens, and for once, you let yourself get lost in it.

“Yeah… it is,” Lando murmured beside you.

You smiled, about to agree—until you noticed something. He wasn’t looking at the painting.

You turned your head, heart skipping. “Lando?” you asked, teasing, trying to keep your voice light. “Are you admiring the art or… me?”

For once, you weren’t trying to scare him off. You weren’t trying to make him squirm or laugh or roll his eyes. You just wanted to know.

He didn’t miss a beat. “You’re the art,” he said softly.

And just like that—fuck.

Your breath caught in your throat. Something in your chest twisted, warm and sharp all at once. You didn’t have time to respond, didn’t even have time to think, before he stepped closer and pulled you in. His hands found your waist, steady and sure, and he guided you gently against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You tried to step back—just a little, just enough to breathe—but the warmth of him, the way he held you like you were something fragile and important, made you stay. His forehead rested against yours, his breath brushing your skin, and when he spoke, his voice was low and quiet, somewhere between a tease and a promise.

“I meant it,” he whispered. “Every word.”

Your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might shake loose from your chest. A full-on drumbeat, wild and loud, and you were almost certain Lando could feel it where your bodies touched. You swallowed, trying to steady your breath, trying to find something—anything—to say. But your mind was blank, spinning too fast to catch a single thought. All you could do was stand there, hoping the marble floor wouldn’t swallow you whole.

Lando didn’t move. He didn’t laugh or pull away or make a joke to break the tension. If anything, he pulled you in just a little closer, his arms tightening around your waist in a way that made your knees feel like jelly. His thumb brushed against your side, slow and gentle, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. Like touching you had become second nature. Like he didn’t want to stop.

“I know you think I’m messing around,” he said softly, his eyes locked on yours. There was no teasing in his voice now. No smirk. Just something quiet and real that made your chest ache. “But I’m not.”

It felt like he saw through you and your stupid article.

You couldn’t breathe. Not properly. Your lungs felt too small for the air in the room.

“I like being with you,” he went on, his voice steady but warm, like he meant every word. “I like the way you talk about things you love. The way you pretend you don’t care, but you do. So much. The way you try so hard to scare me off—I don’t know why—when you’re actually…” He paused, exhaling a breath that sounded like a laugh, but wasn’t. It was something softer. Something a little scared. “…when you’re actually the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.”

You stared at him, completely undone. Because this wasn’t part of the plan. This wasn’t fake. This wasn’t a bit.

And maybe—just maybe—you didn’t want it to be.

Your chest tightened, breath catching like it didn’t know whether to stay or go. The space between you shrank until there was barely any left at all—just the soft brush of his nose against yours, the warmth of him so close it made your skin buzz.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t push. He just stayed there, steady and quiet, like he was giving you time to run if you needed to. But you didn’t move.

“I know it’s fast,” he murmured, voice low and careful, like he was afraid too much noise might break the moment. “I know we’re chaos. But every time I’m with you… everything feels lighter. Better.”

His smile curved gently, not the usual cocky grin, but something smaller. Something real. Something that made your heart ache in the best possible way.

“I just want you to know that,” he said, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Your mouth parted, maybe to argue, maybe to push back, maybe to tell him he had no right being this kind, this gentle, this quietly devastating to your heart—but the words never made it out. They caught somewhere in your throat, tangled in the rush of everything he’d just said, everything he was making you feel.

And then his hand moved—slow and certain—from your waist to your jaw, his palm warm against your skin. He tilted your face up to his, thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone like he was memorizing the shape of you. His eyes flicked to your lips for the briefest moment—so quick it could’ve gone unnoticed, but you felt it. Like a spark, sharp and electric, running straight down your spine.

“Lando…” you whispered, barely more than breath.

That was all it took.

He leaned in and kissed you.

It was soft at first. So soft it startled you. You’d expected something cocky, something fast and reckless—something that matched the way he flirted like he was always in a rush. But this… this was different. His lips met yours with a kind of reverence, like he was asking a question he didn’t dare speak aloud. Like he was afraid to break whatever fragile thing had just bloomed between you.

You inhaled sharply against his mouth, heart stuttering in your chest.

He smiled into the kiss, just a little, like he could feel it too.

Then he kissed you again—deeper this time, slower, more certain. His fingers curled gently at the back of your neck, grounding you, pulling you closer, and you let him. You didn’t even think about stepping away. Because suddenly, being anywhere but here, in his arms, felt wrong. Like saying no to something you’d already started to want.

And in that moment, between the brush of his lips and the warmth of his hands, you stopped pretending it didn’t mean anything.

Because it did.

It meant everything.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tight like it was the only thing keeping you upright. Your legs had completely given up on being useful—soft and shaky beneath you, like they’d forgotten how to hold your weight. You weren’t sure if it was the kiss or the way he was looking at you now, like you were something precious, something he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch.

When he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rested gently against yours. He didn’t let go. His thumb brushed along your cheek, slow and careful, like he needed to feel you there, needed to make sure you hadn’t disappeared. Like he was grounding himself in the fact that this—you—was real.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since day one,” he whispered, his breath warm against your lips, his voice so soft it barely reached your ears.

You opened your mouth, tried to say something, anything—but your brain had short-circuited. All that came out was a quiet, stunned, “…fuck.”

He laughed, low and breathless, like he couldn’t help it. Like he was just as overwhelmed as you were.

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes still on yours. “Me too.”

And somehow, that made it worse. Or better. You couldn’t tell. All you knew was that the world had narrowed to the space between your bodies, to the heat of his hands and the echo of his words, and the terrifying, wonderful truth that maybe—just maybe—you were falling for him.

────────────

DAY EIGHT

If you hadn’t figured it out by now, Lando had a thing for dragging you on these little “dates.” Yesterday it was the art gallery, all soft lighting and quiet glances. Today? Karting. Of all things. You couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the track in front of you—loud, fast, chaotic. Not exactly your idea of romance. And definitely not what you expected from someone who once claimed to hate F1 with his whole chest.

“Karting? Didn’t you say you hate F1?” you asked, watching him crouch in front of you, fiddling with the helmet like he’d done it a thousand times before.

He looked up with that crooked grin of his, the one that always made your stomach flip in the most annoying way. “Since when does karting have anything to do with F1?”

You gave him a look. “Well… it’s basically the same thing.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, stepping in closer. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, gentle and unhurried, before he slid the helmet over your head with a kind of ease that made your heart stutter. He was focused, careful, like this moment mattered more than it should’ve.

“Hold still, love,” he said softly, tugging the straps under your chin until they were snug. His hands lingered—just a second too long. Just enough to make you feel it. The warmth of his touch. The way his eyes didn’t leave yours. The way your breath caught, just a little, because suddenly this wasn’t just about karting anymore.

It was about him. And the way he made everything feel like more.

Once your helmet was on, Lando gave it a little tap like he was proud of himself, like he’d just built the thing from scratch. “Perfect fit,” he said, grinning. “Very aerodynamic. Almost like you were born for speed.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “You talk like someone who knows what he’s doing.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I watched a YouTube video once.”

Of course he did.

You both made your way to the karts, the sound of engines buzzing in the background. As you climbed into yours, still adjusting to the snug seat and awkward helmet, Lando leaned in over your shoulder. His voice dropped to a whisper, warm and teasing right by your ear. “Try not to crash into a wall. It’s not a cute look.”

You tightened your grip on the wheel, shooting him a glare. “Try not to cry when I beat you.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Oh? Big words for someone whose parking skills are questionable at best.”

You gasped, full offense in your chest. “Take that back.”

“Nope,” he said, tapping the side of your kart with a smug little smile. “Hope you brought tissues.”

You stared at him, half ready to throttle him, half trying not to laugh. Your heart was racing, but not from nerves. It was the way he looked at you—like this was all just fun, just the two of you in your own little world, trading jabs and pretending it didn’t mean more than it did.

The track marshal waved you forward, and the low hum of engines filled the air, buzzing with anticipation. You tightened your grip on the wheel, heart thudding with a mix of nerves and excitement. This was supposed to be fun. Casual. Just another one of Lando’s ridiculous “date” ideas. But now that you were here, helmet snug, adrenaline kicking in, it felt like something else entirely.

You glanced over at him.

Lando sat in his kart like he belonged there—completely at ease, fingers resting lightly on the wheel, posture relaxed. His eyes sparkled behind the visor, and there was a smug little tilt to his mouth, like he knew something you didn’t. Like he wasn’t just playing pretend.

“Ready?” he called out, voice teasing, but steady.

You smirked, refusing to let him get the upper hand. “Ready for what? Watching you embarrass yourself?”

He laughed, loud and easy, like he wasn’t the least bit worried. “We’ll see about that, love.”

Then the lights blinked green.

You slammed your foot down and shot forward, the kart jolting beneath you as the track rushed up to meet you. Wind whipped past your helmet, the world narrowing to the blur of asphalt and the roar of engines.

But Lando?

He was already ahead.

Not by much—but enough. Enough to make your stomach drop. Enough to make you narrow your eyes behind the visor, suspicion blooming in your chest.

That wasn’t beginner’s luck.

That was control. Precision. Confidence.

Oh no.

He was good.

Too good.

Yeah. There was no way around it now.

He was definitely an F1 driver.

Of course he won. He was an F1 driver, after all—basically born in a kart. You didn’t stand a chance.

You climbed out of your kart with the slow, heavy steps of someone who had just lived through something tragic. Each movement was exaggerated, dramatic, like you were in a sad movie and the credits were about to roll. Across the track, Lando pulled off his helmet, all glowing skin and wind-swept hair, running a hand through it like he was in a shampoo commercial. Smug. Too smug. And way too good-looking for someone who had just crushed your fake racing dreams.

“Good race, love!” he called, his grin wide and full of victory. “You were—”

You sniffed. Loudly. On purpose.

He stopped mid-sentence. Froze like a deer in headlights.

“…really… something,” he finished, voice suddenly cautious, like he wasn’t sure if he’d just stepped on a landmine.

You wiped under your eye with the back of your hand, letting your shoulders slump. “I—I tried so hard…” you whispered, letting your voice tremble just enough to sound heartbreakingly sincere.

“Oh god,” he muttered, eyes going wide. “Are you crying?”

You let your bottom lip wobble. Just a little. Just enough. It was perfect. Dramatic. Oscar-worthy.

“I just thought…” you said, barely above a whisper, “maybe you’d let me win.”

Lando blinked, completely horrified. “Let you—why would I let—no, wait—did I hurt your feelings?”

He looked like he was about to spiral. And you? You were trying very hard not to burst out laughing.

Mission: Ick—almost complete.

You sniffed again, dragging it out for maximum effect. “I’m just… I’m just not good at anything,” you said, voice trembling like you were seconds from a full emotional collapse.

Lando’s face crumpled in panic. “Hey—NO—no, don’t say that,” he rushed out, stepping right up to you. His hands hovered near your arms, unsure if he should touch you, like you were a fragile vase he might accidentally knock over. “You were great. Seriously. Amazing. Like—like really fast!”

You looked up at him, eyes wide and full of fake misery. “You lapped me.”

“That was—luck!” he said quickly, grasping at straws. “The wind! Maybe your kart was cursed! Mercury’s in retrograde?”

You just stared at him.

He blinked. “I don’t actually know what that means,” he admitted, sheepish.

Then, slowly, he reached up and cupped your face in both hands, his thumbs brushing your cheeks like he was wiping away tears that didn’t exist. His touch was warm, careful, and way too gentle for someone who was supposed to be getting the ick.

“Please don’t cry,” he said softly, eyes searching yours. “I swear, next time I’ll go slow. Like, super slow. Snail slow. Painfully slow.”

You sniffed again, just to keep the bit alive.

“And you can—win?” he offered, voice so soft it could’ve melted steel.

You paused, letting the silence stretch.

Then he leaned in, whispering like it was a secret he’d never tell anyone else, “I’ll even cheer for you.”

God.

He was not getting the ick.

He was getting sweeter.

You crossed your arms and gave him a long, suspicious look. “You definitely drive like an F1 driver. That was… terrifyingly perfect.”

Lando just shrugged, all wide-eyed innocence and that annoyingly charming grin. “Me? Nah. Just natural talent. Pure luck.”

You squinted at him, not buying it for a second. “Luck? Really? Lando, come on. Who taught you to take corners like that?”

He tapped the side of his helmet like he was trying to summon a memory. “Hmm… let me think… Oh! There was that one time I went karting with Oscar. We were… uh… drunk.”

You blinked. “Drunk?”

“Yeah,” he said, waving it off like it was no big deal. “Totally hammered. But, you know, we got super competitive. Things got intense. I guess I picked up a few tricks.”

You stared at him, one eyebrow slowly rising. “So what you’re telling me is… all that flawless driving, the perfect lines, the ridiculous speed—that all came from a drunken karting night with Oscar?”

He nodded solemnly, like he was sharing some sacred truth, this ridiculous story about drunk karting with Oscar. Like he expected you to believe it. Like he was doing you a favor.

You narrowed your eyes, arms crossed. “Nah. You’re lying. That was way too smooth. Maybe you’re some underground racer. Or a secret karting champion. Or—I don’t know—an actual F1 driver.”

That made him freeze. Just for a second. Barely noticeable, but you caught it.

“I could be anything but an F1 driver, darlin’,” he said, flashing a grin that was trying a little too hard to be casual.

You stepped in, squinting at him like you were trying to read the fine print on his soul. “What are you, Lando?”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just looked at you with that maddeningly soft gaze and said, “Yours.”

Your brain short-circuited.

“Excuse me?” you said, voice cracking slightly.

He shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You asked. I answered.”

“That’s not an answer,” you said, trying to sound annoyed, but your heart was doing somersaults.

“It’s the answer,” he said, stepping closer. “Unless you’re saying I’m wrong.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I—no—I mean—you can’t just say stuff like that.”

“Why not?” he asked, tilting his head. “Too honest? Too soon? Too charming?”

“Too dangerous,” you muttered, mostly to yourself.

He smiled, slow and warm. “Then maybe you should stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re two seconds away from kissing me again.”

You scoffed. “Please. You wish.”

“I do, actually,” he said, grinning. “All the time.”

You hated how fast your heart was beating. You hated how much you didn’t hate any of this.

You didn’t mean to.

Honestly, you didn’t.

You were just trying to get the last word, to throw him off his game, to win something after getting absolutely destroyed on the track. But then he said it—“Yours”—and looked at you like he meant it. Like he wasn’t joking. Like he wasn’t playing.

And suddenly, all the teasing and pretending and fake dating blurred into something else. Something real.

Your heart was pounding again, but not from nerves this time. From something warmer. Wilder.

You stepped in before you could talk yourself out of it, before your brain could catch up to your body. You reached up, curled your fingers into the front of his shirt, and kissed him.

It was quick at first—just a press of lips, soft and unsure. But then he kissed you back, and everything tilted. His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer like he’d been waiting for this, like he’d been holding back. The world around you faded—no engines, no noise, no track. Just him. Just this.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and a little dazed, he blinked at you like he wasn’t sure if that had actually happened.

“Okay,” he said, voice low and a little hoarse. “So… that was new.”

You smiled, heart still racing. “Yeah. Felt like the right time.”

He grinned, eyes shining. “You gonna cry again? Or was that just for show?”

You smacked his arm, laughing. “Don’t push your luck, Norris.”

But he was already leaning in again, and this time, you didn’t stop him.

────────────

DAY NINE

If there were awards for terrible ideas, you, Hanna, and Carol would’ve won first place without even trying.

The plan? Simple. Stupid. Dangerous. Carol would pretend to be your overbearing mother. Hanna, your clingy, dramatic sister. The goal? Scare Lando off. Because nothing made a guy run faster than a surprise family meeting—especially one that felt like a trap.

You had an article to finish. A deadline breathing down your neck. You didn’t have time for feelings or flirting or the way Lando made your heart do weird, fluttery things. This was supposed to be sabotage. A clean break.

“This is the dumbest plan we’ve ever come up with,” you groaned, flopping back onto the couch like the weight of your own chaos had finally caught up with you.

Because it was dumb. So dumb. And yet… you were still doing it.

“We need to scare him off today,” you said, trying to sound firm, like you still believed in the mission. “Men hate meeting the family. It’s a classic move.”

But even as you said it, your voice wavered. Because deep down, you weren’t sure you wanted him to run. You were already starting to give up on the whole sabotage thing. And maybe—just maybe—you were secretly hoping he wouldn’t get the ick at all.

Hanna snorted from across the room, not even trying to hide her amusement. “Lando doesn’t even hate commitment anymore, babe. I think he’s into you.”

You grabbed the nearest pillow and launched it at her. “SHUT. UP. This is sabotage, not a romcom.”

But your heart was already betraying you. Because if this was a romcom… you weren’t sure you’d mind.

Carol cleared her throat like she was about to deliver a line in a play. “So,” she said, voice full of drama, “should I greet him with ‘hello sweetheart, I’m her mother,’ or go full Italian and say, ‘mio caro, welcome to the family’?”

You nearly choked. “None!” you hissed, waving your hands like you could physically swat the words out of the air. “Just—act old. Like, tired. Like life has worn you down.”

Carol stared at you, completely offended. “I’m twenty-five,” she said, like you’d just accused her of being ancient.

“Well, today you’re forty-five,” you snapped, pointing at her like you were directing a scene. “You’ve lived through heartbreak. You’ve seen things. Put some misery in your eyes.”

She gave it a try. Squinted. Frowned. Tilted her head like she was trying to summon the weight of the world.

You stared at her. “Okay, no. Now you just look like you’re trying to remember if you left the oven on. Less constipation, more emotional exhaustion.”

From the couch, Hanna raised her hand like she was in school. “Wait—what am I again?”

“You’re the sister,” you said, pacing now, fully in chaos mode. “The older, more responsible one. You think he’s not good enough for me. You’re protective. Judgy. A little scary.”

“But I’m only two months older than you.”

“Age is a social construct,” you said without missing a beat.

Hanna nodded slowly, like she was accepting a sacred duty. “Right. I’ll be a bitch.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. This was either going to be a disaster or the most brilliant plan you’d ever come up with. But deep down, you weren’t sure you even wanted it to work. Because if Lando didn’t run after this… maybe he was already too far gone.

Suddenly—

knock knock knock.

You froze mid-step. The room went silent. All three of you stared at each other like you’d just heard the cops at the door and were hiding something illegal. Which, in a way, you were. Just emotionally.

“Oh god,” you whispered, heart lurching. “He’s early. Positions!”

Hanna launched herself onto the couch like she’d rehearsed it. Carol, for reasons unknown, grabbed a wooden spoon and clutched it like a weapon—or maybe a prop. You didn’t have time to ask. You ran your hands through your hair, tried to calm your breathing, and forced your face into something that resembled calm.

Then you opened the door.

And there he was.

Lando stood on the doorstep, grinning like this was the best part of his day. His curls were slightly windblown, his cheeks pink from the cold, and in his hands was a tiny, slightly lopsided bouquet of flowers—wildflowers, by the look of them. Sweet. Thoughtful. A little chaotic. Just like him.

“These are for your family,” he said, holding them out with a smile so genuine it made your chest ache.

You took them, blinking.

Right. Sabotage.

You were supposed to be scaring him off.

So why did it already feel like you were the one in trouble?

“Come in, baby,” you said with a smile, stepping aside to let him through the door. Your voice sounded calm, sweet even—but inside, your nerves were doing somersaults. As soon as he passed you, you glanced down at the little bouquet in his hands.

Of course. Of course he brought flowers.

Tiny wildflowers, wrapped in brown paper, like something out of a movie. Thoughtful. Soft. Completely disarming. You hadn’t even told him to bring anything, and yet here he was, showing up like the perfect boyfriend. It made your heart ache in a way you didn’t have time to unpack.

Before you could say anything, Carol appeared from the hallway like she’d been waiting for her cue. She had that strange, overly warm tone she’d been practicing all afternoon, the one that made your skin crawl. “Oh,” she said, clasping her hands together. “You must be Lanny.”

You winced so hard your soul left your body. She really went with Lanny.

Lando blinked, clearly thrown for a second. You watched him process it, saw the flicker of confusion in his eyes. But then he smiled, polite as ever. “Um—yeah. Lando. But… Lanny works too.”

Too polite. Suspiciously polite. Like he was trying very hard to be respectful, even though he was clearly wondering what the hell he’d just walked into.

From the couch, Hanna crossed her arms and gave him a long, slow once-over, like she was inspecting a used car someone was trying to sell her. Her expression said I don’t trust you, and her body language screamed prove yourself.

You forced a smile, lips tight, heart pounding. This was already spiraling. You could feel it. The energy in the room was weird, the air too thick, the silence too loud. And Lando—sweet, unsuspecting Lando—was walking straight into the most chaotic trap you’d ever set.

And somehow, you were starting to think he might actually survive it. Worse—he might even like it.

You all settled around the table, the air thick with the kind of silence that only comes from people trying way too hard to act normal. Every movement felt exaggerated—Carol adjusting her chair like she was preparing for a job interview, Hanna crossing her legs with the stiff elegance of someone playing a role she didn’t fully understand, and you, sitting there with your hands folded sweetly in your lap, trying not to scream.

You turned to Lando with your best fake-girlfriend smile. “So, baby… this is my mom, Carol,” you said, gesturing toward her.

Carol immediately straightened her spine like she was about to launch into a lecture on interest rates and responsible homeownership. She even gave him a tight-lipped smile that screamed I’m watching you, young man.

“And this is my older sister, Hanna,” you added.

Lando didn’t even blink. “Nice to meet you,” he said warmly, nodding at both of them like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Not a single question.

He didn’t ask why all three of you looked like you could’ve graduated high school the same year. Didn’t ask why your “mother” was wearing baggy pants and sipping wine straight from the bottle like she was still in uni. Didn’t ask why your “older sister” looked the same age as you.

Nothing.

Hanna narrowed her eyes, clearly trying to find a crack in his calm. Carol raised one eyebrow, impressed despite herself.

And you? You just stared at him, waiting. Waiting for confusion. For hesitation. For even a flicker of doubt.

Carol folded her hands on the table, her whole body shifting like a switch had flipped. The goofy, over-the-top fake mom act vanished in an instant. Now she looked like someone’s actual mother—stern, composed, and ready to interrogate.

“So, Lanny,” she said, her voice calm but sharp enough to slice through steel, “what exactly are your intentions with my daughter?”

You nearly spit out your drink. The glass clinked awkwardly as you set it down, trying to recover. Across the table, Hanna’s head snapped toward Carol, eyes wide with shock. Oh, we’re doing this now? her expression said.

But Lando didn’t even blink.

He sat up straighter, folded his hands neatly in front of him, and nodded once—like he’d been expecting this moment. Like he’d rehearsed for it.

“I want to make her happy,” he said, voice steady. “Take her on dates. Listen to her. Be there when she needs me.”

Carol raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “That’s vague.”

You kicked him under the table, not hard, just enough to say abort mission, say less, this is a trap.

But he didn’t even flinch. Just kept going, calm as ever. “I’m not here to waste her time,” he said. “If I’m with someone, I’m serious about it.”

You stared at him, stunned. Because it sounded good. Too good. Like something out of a script. Like something someone would say if they were trying to win over your fake mom and your fake sister and maybe even you.

Which was ridiculous.

Because this was sabotage.

And he was supposed to be getting the ick.

Not… passing the test.

Hanna tilted her head, her eyes drifting from Lando’s face down to his wrist. You saw the moment it clicked—her posture shifted, her expression sharpened. She leaned back slowly in her chair, like a cat getting ready to pounce.

“So,” she said, voice light and casual, too casual, “what do you do for a living, Lando?”

You tensed. Here it came.

Lando didn’t miss a beat. “Uh—mechanic,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from reacting. Here we go.

Hanna raised one eyebrow. Then the other. She nodded once, like she was pretending to accept the answer, like she was giving him a chance to walk it back. But then she lifted her hand and pointed straight at his wrist.

“Mechanic,” she repeated, slow and deliberate. “With a Richard Mille on his hand?”

The room went dead silent.

Carol’s eyes snapped to the watch like she’d just locked onto a target. Her wine glass paused mid-air. You could feel the tension rise like a wave, and your stomach dropped. You didn’t even want to look. You were too busy trying to remember if you could fake a power outage or pull the fire alarm.

Lando followed their gaze, looked down at his wrist, and—oh no. Oh no.

He smiled.

Not sheepishly. Not nervously.

He smiled like he was in on the joke. Like he’d been waiting for this moment.

“I got a promotion,” he said, voice smooth, eyes twinkling.

You wanted to scream. Or laugh. Or maybe both. Because he wasn’t cracking. He wasn’t sweating. He wasn’t even trying to lie better. He was just rolling with it.

And somehow, that made everything worse.

Because if he could survive this, what else could he survive?

Hanna stared at him like she was trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces.

Carol stared harder, her eyes narrowing with the kind of focus usually reserved for courtroom cross-examinations.

And you? You stared like you were watching someone step directly into oncoming traffic—calm, clueless, and seconds from disaster.

“A promotion,” Hanna repeated, her voice slow and skeptical. “That lets you casually wear a watch worth more than my car?”

Lando didn’t even blink. He just shrugged, completely at ease. “Good year,” he said, like that explained everything.

Carol folded her arms, her tone turning sharp. “Mechanics don’t usually get that kind of promotion.”

He smiled, still polite, still maddeningly calm. “Well, I’m very good at my job.”

You jumped in before anyone could press further, your voice a little too loud, a little too fast. “He fixes… very important cars,” you said, nodding like that would somehow make it all make sense.

Hanna’s eyes drifted toward you, sharp and suspicious. “Like?” she asked, her tone light but loaded, clearly waiting for you to dig your own grave.

Your brain short-circuited. “Uh—broken ones,” you blurted, voice a little too high, a little too fast.

Lando, without missing a beat, nodded solemnly. “The most broken,” he added, like he was describing a noble calling instead of covering up a very obvious lie.

Carol narrowed her eyes at him, her expression unreadable. She didn’t say anything right away, just stared, like she was trying to see through him. You could feel the tension stretch across the table like a wire pulled too tight.

But then—she smiled.

Slowly. Sweetly. Dangerously.

“Well,” she said, her voice soft but edged with something sharper, “as long as you’re good to her.”

Lando didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. He met her gaze head-on, calm and steady.

“Always,” he said.

And just like that, the room shifted. Hanna leaned back, watching him with new eyes. Carol sipped her wine, still studying him, but no longer on the attack. And you… you sat there, heart thudding, unsure if you were impressed or terrified.

Because this was supposed to be a disaster. A mess. A sabotage mission.

But instead, Lando was passing every test like he’d seen the script ahead of time.

And honestly? It was starting to feel like maybe you were the one getting played.

That article you were supposed to be writing—the one about how to lose a guy in ten days?

Yeah. You might want to start drafting a new headline.

────────────

DAY TEN

The ball was everything Monaco always promised to be—loud with money, dripping in diamonds, and filled with people who wore confidence like perfume. The chandeliers sparkled like stars, the music was soft and expensive, and every guest looked like they’d stepped out of a fashion magazine. Even the air felt rich. It was the kind of place where people didn’t just dress up—they dressed to be remembered.

It was the tenth day. The final one. The last chance to do something big, something bold, something that would make your article worth reading (or even publishing).You were supposed to be wrapping this up with a dramatic exit, a clean break, a story that would make your editor proud. But instead, your stomach was in knots, and your heart was doing that annoying fluttery thing every time Lando looked at you.

You wore a yellow dress that dipped low in the back, soft and silky, the kind of thing that made you feel like someone else—someone braver, maybe. You stood beside Lando at the bar, close enough to feel the warmth of his arm against yours, trying to remember that this was all pretend. Just a game. Just a job.

“I’m going to the toilet, baby,” you said, your voice light, casual.

“Be quick,” he replied, smiling at you. But his eyes lingered, soft and warm, like he didn’t really want you to go.

You turned before you could let that look sink in too deep. Your heels clicked against the marble floor as you slipped into the crowd, trying to blend in with the glittering chaos around you. But your heart was racing. Your thoughts were loud. This was it. The final act. The moment you were supposed to pull the rug out from under him.

And yet, as you moved through the sea of strangers, all you could think was—what if you didn’t want to?

You paused behind the marble column, pretending to adjust your clutch, trying to look like you belonged there—just another guest in a sea of glitter and champagne. But then you heard it. A voice you recognized, light and casual, like he was talking about the weather.

“I guess Lando won the bet,” Oscar said.

Your heart stopped.

“What bet?” Carlos asked, sounding curious but clueless. You didn’t know him well—barely at all, really—but that didn’t matter. The words were already sinking in.

Charles answered before anyone else could. “We didn’t tell you? We made a bet. Lando had to pull a girl without using money, fame, or F1 status. Looks like he actually won.”

You froze. Completely.

Your breath caught in your throat, and for a second, the noise of the ballroom faded into a dull, distant hum. You stared at the floor, at the polished marble beneath your heels, trying to make sense of what you’d just heard.

That’s why he lied.

Every little thing—calling himself a mechanic, brushing off questions about his job, the way he always danced around the truth with that easy smile—it wasn’t just about keeping things simple. It wasn’t about privacy or nerves or even trying to be normal.

It was a game.

A bet.

“And now we have to get him a car,” Max added, his voice dry, like this was all just a joke to him.

You gritted your teeth, fingers curling tightly around your clutch. Your chest felt hot, like something was burning from the inside out. Embarrassment. Anger. Hurt. All tangled together in a way that made it hard to breathe.

This wasn’t just a stupid article anymore. This wasn’t just a fake relationship or a silly plan to scare him off. Somewhere along the way, it had started to feel real. And now? Now it felt like you were the punchline to a joke you didn’t know you were part of.

Catastrophic didn’t even begin to cover it.

Lando sat perched on a barstool, one hand wrapped loosely around a glass, the other resting on his knee. From a distance, he looked relaxed—cool, collected, like he belonged in a place like this. Like the ballroom, with its gold trim and glittering chandeliers, was just another familiar backdrop.

But if you looked closer, you’d see the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes scanned the crowd with quiet urgency. He was waiting for something. Or someone. And whatever calm he was pretending to wear, it didn’t quite reach his bones.

A girl approached, all soft smiles and fluttering lashes, her dress clinging in all the right places. She leaned in, voice syrupy sweet. “Hi… Lando, right?”

He turned to her, offering a polite smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Yeah. Can I help you?”

She tilted her head, stepping a little closer. “I just… wanted to say hi. You’re amazing on the track.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. He nodded once. “Thanks.”

But there was no warmth in it. No charm. Just a quiet edge that made her falter. Her smile wavered as she caught the sharpness in his gaze, the way his shoulders were tight, like he was bracing for something to hit.

Because he was.

He wasn’t looking for attention. He wasn’t looking for praise. He was looking for you.

The girl leaned in close, her voice dropping to a whisper like she was about to share something scandalous. “Um… Lando, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there’s this article rumor going around—How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days—and, well… apparently you’re the guy.”

Lando froze, his glass halfway to his lips. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just sat there, completely still, like someone had hit pause on him. The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp. His jaw tightened, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and cold, the kind of tone that made people instinctively take a step back.

“What?”

The girl hesitated, clearly realizing she’d just dropped a bomb. But it was too late to take it back. “She… your girlfriend writes it,” she said, eyes wide. “And, well, it’s everywhere. Everyone’s talking about it.”

Lando didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The look on his face said enough. Confusion. Hurt. And something else—something darker. Like all the little things that hadn’t made sense were suddenly clicking into place. Every weird moment. Every awkward excuse. Every time you’d acted just a little too strange, a little too dramatic. It all made sense now.

So that’s why you were so cringe every time.

It hadn’t been nerves. It hadn’t been quirks. It had been a setup. A game.

And he’d been the punchline.

Your eyes found his across the crowded ballroom, and for a moment, everything else faded. The music, the laughter, the clinking of glasses—it all blurred into the background. You didn’t think. You just moved. So did Lando. Like magnets pulled by something too strong to fight. Fury burned in your chest, tangled with confusion and something that felt dangerously close to heartbreak. His expression mirrored yours—tight jaw, stormy eyes, like he was holding back a thousand questions and not a single answer.

And then, suddenly, you collided.

Your body bumped into his, and the glass in his hand wobbled, nearly spilling. His arm shot out, catching you before you could stumble back. Lando’s hands landed on your waist, steady and warm, and for a second, you hated how natural it felt. How easy it was to fall into him, even now.

“Watch it,” you snapped, but your voice cracked halfway through. It didn’t come out sharp like you wanted. It came out small. Shaken.

“I think you should watch it,” he shot back, his voice low and tight. There was anger there, yes—but also something else. Hurt. Disbelief. Like he didn’t know whether to yell or just walk away.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “We really need to talk.”

Lando didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at you like he was trying to see through every version of you he’d met over the past ten days. “Yeah,” he said, his voice edged with something dark and raw. “I was about to say the same thing.”

Your stomach dropped the moment it hit you. Oh no. He knew. Somehow, he’d found out. Maybe someone told him. Maybe he saw it himself. Either way, the truth was out—and everything was about to fall apart.

You didn’t think. You just moved. Heart pounding, you pushed through the crowd, slipping between glittering gowns and sharp tuxedos, barely noticing the startled glances as you passed. The heels of your shoes clicked too loudly on the marble floor, echoing your panic. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, like the walls were closing in, like the whole ballroom was watching and you were seconds away from crumbling.

“Y/n—wait!” Lando’s voice cut through the music, sharp and clear, full of something that made your chest ache. Anger. Confusion. Hurt.

But you didn’t stop.

You shoved open the double doors and stepped out onto the terrace, the cold night air slamming into you like a slap. It was quiet out here, the noise of the party muffled behind you, but your thoughts were still loud. Too loud. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hold it together, trying to figure out what you could possibly say to fix this.

And then he was there.

Lando stepped out after you, his tux slightly rumpled, his hair a little messy, his eyes burning with something fierce. He looked like he’d run after you without thinking, like he couldn’t not follow.

“An article?” he said, voice low but sharp, each word hitting like a punch. “Really?”

You froze, caught mid-step, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. There was no point pretending anymore. No more games. No more fake smiles. He knew. And now, you had to face the wreckage.

There was no dodging this. Not anymore.

“I… I didn’t mean for it to—” you started, but the words felt thin, useless, like paper in a storm. Your hands were shaking, your voice barely holding together. You could see the way he was looking at you—like he didn’t recognize the person standing in front of him. And maybe he didn’t. Maybe you didn’t either.

“Didn’t mean for it to what?” Lando snapped, stepping closer. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was sharp, cutting through the cold night air like a blade. “To humiliate me? To make me a joke?”

You flinched. He wasn’t yelling, but the hurt in his voice was louder than anything else. It was in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his eyes searched yours like he was still hoping this was all some kind of mistake. But it wasn’t. You knew that. And now he did too.

“Look, Lando…” you tried again, your voice cracking. “It wasn’t supposed to mean that much. I never thought I’d actually—”

But the words caught in your throat. You couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t say what you were about to say, because it would make everything worse. Or maybe it would make it real. And that was even scarier.

He stared at you, his face unreadable now, but his voice gave him away. Low. Cold. Wounded. “All I was for you… was just fun? Just content for an article?”

You looked down, unable to meet his eyes. The guilt pressed down on your chest like a weight, heavy and suffocating. You wanted to explain, to tell him it hadn’t been like that, not really. That somewhere along the way, the lines had blurred and your heart had gotten involved. But how could you say that now? How could you expect him to believe it?

Lando stepped closer, his movements sharp, his eyes locked on yours. The air between you crackled with tension, thick with everything unsaid. His voice came low and tight, each word laced with disbelief and something deeper—something raw. “You wanted to lose a guy in ten days,” he said, jabbing a finger toward you like it hurt just to point.

“Congratulations. You just lost him.”

Then he turned, walking away without waiting for a reply, his shoulders stiff, his steps fast and angry. Like he couldn’t stand to be near you for another second.

But you weren’t done. Not even close.

You had every right to be mad too.

“Lost you?” you shouted after him, your voice rising, cracking under the weight of everything you’d been holding in. “God, Lando, have I ever even had you?!”

He stopped. Froze mid-step. You saw the way his back tensed, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides. Slowly, he turned to face you again, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were burning.

“I know about the bet,” you said, your voice shaking now. “I know you’re an F1 driver. I know you lied. And I know you only did it for a car.”

There it was. The truth. Ugly and loud and hanging between you like smoke.

Lando’s jaw clenched. His voice, when it came, was tight and bitter. “Yeah. It was a bet,” he said. “But the difference is… I actually liked you.”

The words hit you like a punch. You blinked, your throat tightening. “But you used me,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out.

“And you used me,” he said, steady and cold, not flinching. “So don’t act like you’re the only one who got hurt.”

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t. Because he was right.

You’d both played the game.

And now, neither of you was winning.

────────────

A WEEK LATER

You were back where it all began—your office, quiet and still, the soft hum of your laptop the only sound in the room. The screen glowed in front of you, the article open and waiting. You stared at it, reading the words again and again, as if one more pass might somehow soften the edges, might make it feel less like a confession and more like a story. But no matter how many times you scrolled, the truth stayed the same. It was all there. Every messy, complicated, too-honest piece of it.

It had been a week since you’d seen Lando. A week since the ball, since the shouting, since the look in his eyes that still haunted you when you closed yours. You hadn’t spoken. Not a single text. Not a single call. And even though you told yourself it was better this way, that it was cleaner to leave it alone, the ache in your chest said otherwise. You missed him. More than you wanted to admit. More than you thought possible. The last time you’d laughed without thinking, the last time you’d felt light, had been with him.

Now, all you felt was tired.

You glanced up from the screen, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. Hanna sat cross-legged on the couch, flipping through a magazine she clearly wasn’t reading. Carol sat on her place, arms crossed, watching you with that quiet, knowing look she always wore when she was waiting for you to catch up to your own feelings.

“So…” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re sure I should just… publish it?”

They didn’t answer right away. But they didn’t need to. You already knew what they’d say. They’d been with you through all of it—through the planning, the chaos, the unraveling. And now, they were here for the ending. Whatever that turned out to be.

Hanna leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled under her chin, that familiar teasing spark dancing in her eyes. “Honestly? You’re overthinking it,” she said with a shrug. “It’s perfect. Every awkward moment, every ridiculous thing you did—it’s so you. That’s what makes it work.”

Across the room, Carol took a slow sip of her coffee, her expression calm but certain. “It’s raw,” she said. “Brutally honest. People are going to love it.”

You let out a soft, bitter laugh, the sound catching in your throat. It wasn’t about people. It never had been. You didn’t care if strangers liked it, or if it went viral, or if your editor called it brilliant. That wasn’t the part that mattered.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, the cursor blinking like it was waiting for your heart to catch up with your hands. “What about him?” you asked, your voice quieter now, almost afraid to say it out loud. “Do you think he’ll… read it?”

Hanna and Carol exchanged a look, the kind that said they’d already had this conversation without you. Hanna leaned forward, her voice confident, certain. “Oh, he’s going to read it. Even if he doesn’t want to, Oscar will shove it in his face. You know how those two are—he won’t let it slide.”

Carol gave a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah. And honestly? He deserves to know. All of it.”

You let out a dry, bitter laugh, the kind that didn’t reach your eyes. “He probably hates me by now,” you said, staring down at the blinking cursor. “So he’s going to hate this stupid article too.”

Hanna rolled her eyes and waved a hand like she was brushing the thought away. “Oh, shut up,” she said, not unkindly. “If he hates you, then he’s a complete idiot. And let’s not forget—you have every right to hate him too.”

You didn’t answer. Just sat there, the weight of the article pressing down on your chest. Every word you’d written felt heavier now, like it carried more than just your voice—it carried your guilt, your fear, your heart. You stared at the screen, at the story that had started as a joke and turned into something else entirely. Something real.

You took a shaky breath, your fingers curling slightly against the edge of the keyboard. And then, so quietly you weren’t even sure they heard you, you whispered, “But I don’t hate him. I never did. I never will.”

You froze, fingers hovering just above the trackpad, heart thudding in your chest like it was trying to warn you. The cursor blinked on the screen, waiting. The article stared back at you, every word a piece of your heart laid bare. It didn’t feel like a story anymore. It felt like a confession.

Carol leaned over from her spot by the window, her coffee cradled in both hands, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “Are you gonna press that damn publish button, or should I do it for you?”

You let out a shaky laugh, more breath than sound, and leaned back in your chair, staring at the screen like it might blink first. “Fine,” you said, your voice soft but steady. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

You took a deep breath, held it for a second too long, then exhaled and clicked.

The screen flickered once. Then again. And just like that, it was done.

The article was live.

Hanna clapped gently, her eyes bright with something between pride and nerves. “Well,” she said, her voice light but careful, “that’s it. It’s out there.”

You nodded slowly, the weight of it settling over you like a blanket. There was no going back now. The truth was in the world. And all you could do was wait to see what came of it.

────────────

Lando was stretched out on Oscar’s couch, one arm slung over his eyes, the other hanging off the side like he couldn’t be bothered to move. His phone sat untouched on the coffee table, screen dark, buzzing every now and then with messages he had no interest in reading.

The TV was on, playing something loud and fast, but he wasn’t really watching. He hadn’t been watching anything for days. Not really. His mind kept circling back to that night at the ball—your voice, your face, the way it all fell apart in seconds. He’d gone over it so many times he could recite every word, every look, every breath. But no matter how many times he replayed it, the ending never changed.

The door slammed open without warning.

Max and Charles.

Of course it was.

“You’re gonna shit yourself,” Max said, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

Oscar nearly dropped his drink. “Jesus, Max—maybe try saying hello like a normal person?”

Charles didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, arms crossed, eyes locked on Lando like he was waiting for something. Lando sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, already tired of whatever this was.

“Have you read it yet?” Charles asked, his voice calm but pointed.

Lando frowned. “Read what?”

Max stepped forward, practically bouncing with excitement. “Y/n’s article,” he said, like it was obvious. Like it was the only thing anyone could possibly be talking about.

The room went still.

Lando’s jaw clenched, his whole body going rigid. He looked at the phone on the table like it had betrayed him. “I don’t want to read it,” he said quietly, but there was steel in his voice.

Not because he didn’t care—but because he cared too much. Because he wasn’t sure he could handle seeing your words, not if they were cruel. Not if they made everything worse. Not if they confirmed what he was already afraid of—that none of it had meant anything to you.

Max let out a dramatic scoff, flopping onto the armrest of the couch like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Oh, come on. You’ve been sulking for a week. At this point, reading it is basically self-care.”

Oscar didn’t argue. He just pulled out his phone and started unlocking it, already scrolling. “Mate… seriously. You should read it. Just once.”

Charles stood by the window, arms crossed, his usual easygoing expression replaced with something quieter, more thoughtful. “At least hear what she actually said,” he added, his voice calm but firm.

Lando sat there, jaw tight, staring at the floor like it might offer him a way out. He shook his head slowly, then looked away, his voice low and flat. “I already know enough. She used me. I used her. End of story.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow, not buying it for a second. “Fine,” he said, shrugging. “Then we’ll read it. Without you. And we won’t tell you a single word.”

Lando gave a dry laugh, trying to play it cool. “I think I’ll survive.”

But the way his eyes flicked toward the phone, the way his fingers twitched like they wanted to reach for it—yeah. No one in the room believed him. Not for a second.

“Alright then,” Oscar said, tapping his phone with a shrug, his tone light but loaded. “Your loss.”

He cleared his throat and began to read, voice casual at first, like it was just another article, just another story. Nothing personal.

Lando didn’t move. He sat stiffly, arms crossed, eyes locked on the blank TV screen like it might offer him a way out. He told himself he didn’t care. That it didn’t matter what you’d written. That he already knew how the story ended. But the lie cracked fast—thirty seconds in, maybe less.

“…oh my god,” Max muttered, leaning forward, eyes wide.

Charles let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Okay, that’s actually funny.”

Oscar’s brow furrowed as he kept reading, his voice slowing. “Wait—she planned that? We were so blind.”

Lando’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking as he stared harder at the screen, refusing to look at them. But the words were starting to slip through anyway, each one landing like a pebble in his chest.

Max let out a sharp snort. “That explains the wedding talk. Mate, she was terrorizing you on purpose.”

“I knew it,” Lando muttered under his breath, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Oscar glanced up from his phone. “You say something?”

“Nothing,” Lando snapped, already rising from the couch, his movements sharp and restless. He didn’t want to be here anymore. Didn’t want to listen to them read your words out loud like they were just some juicy gossip. He didn’t want to care.

But then Oscar kept going, voice steady, eyes still on the screen. “She says you’re the funniest guy she’s ever met.”

That stopped him cold.

Lando froze mid-step, then turned so fast he nearly sent the coffee table skidding across the floor. His heart was pounding, his chest tight, and he hated how much that one line got to him. Hated how it cracked something open.

“Give me that damn phone,” he said, voice low and rough, hand outstretched.

He didn’t want to hear it secondhand anymore.

He needed to see it for himself. Every word. Every line. Every truth you’d finally decided to tell.

Lando snatched Oscar’s phone from his hands, his fingers moving fast, almost frantic, as he scrolled through the article. The room faded around him—Max’s smirk, Charles’s quiet stare, even the low hum of the TV—all of it disappeared as the words filled the screen. Your words.

Each sentence landed like a punch to the chest. He read about the plan, the chaos you’d orchestrated, the way you’d tried to push him away with every awkward moment, every ridiculous stunt. And then he hit the part that stopped him cold.

I set out to see if I could make a guy run for the hills in ten days. I planned every awkward moment, every cringe-worthy interaction, every little sabotage. And yet… against all logic, all strategy, I failed spectacularly. Somewhere along the way, I realized that I wasn’t trying to make him leave—I was falling for him.

His breath caught. He kept reading, slower now, like the weight of it was too much to carry all at once.

I ended up losing the only guy I ever loved. The one who made me laugh when I wanted to cry, who somehow made stupidity seem charming, and who didn’t flinch when I tried my hardest to push him away.

His throat tightened. He could barely see the screen anymore, but he kept going.

To Lando: if you ever read this, know that it was never just a game. I love you, and I miss you. And I’m still hopelessly yours.

He exhaled, the word slipping out before he could stop it. “Fuck.”

Oscar shifted beside him, quiet for once. “Yeah.”

Max cleared his throat, trying to cut the tension. “So… you’re not mad anymore, right?”

Lando didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

He was already on his feet, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair, movements sharp and certain. His heart was pounding, but for the first time in days, it wasn’t from anger. It was something else. Something that felt a lot like hope.

“I wasted a week,” he said, voice thick but steady. “I’m not wasting another minute.”

Lando drove like the world was on fire behind him and you were the only thing that could put it out. His hands gripped the wheel tight, knuckles white, heart pounding harder than the engine beneath him. He didn’t think—he just moved, every red light a suggestion, every turn a blur. He had no plan, no speech, just one thought echoing louder than the rest: don’t be too late.

By the time he pulled up to your building, his chest was tight, breath shallow. And then—just as he was about to kill the engine—the garage door began to rise.

Your car rolled forward.

Of course. You were leaving.

“Fuck,” he muttered, panic flaring hot in his chest.

Without a second thought, he yanked the wheel and swung his car sideways, cutting across the entrance and blocking your path. Your tires squealed as you hit the brakes, headlights flashing in protest. For a second, everything was still—just the hum of engines and the sharp thud of your heart in your ears.

“What the hell—” you started, throwing your door open and stepping out, squinting into the glare. You didn’t recognize the car at first, didn’t recognize him. You thought it was just some reckless stranger, another Monaco idiot with too much money and not enough patience.

“Are you insane?!” you shouted, storming forward, hands planted on your hips. “Move your car!”

And then he stepped out.

Lando.

Calm. Steady. Like he hadn’t just broken every traffic law to get here. Like he hadn’t spent the last week unraveling. He looked at you like he’d been holding his breath for days and had only just remembered how to breathe.

“Is it true?” Lando asked, his voice low, almost careful.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He took a step closer, eyes searching yours. “That I’m the funniest guy you’ve ever met?”

A breath hitched in your throat, but you didn’t look away. “I meant every word, Lando.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes locked on yours like he was bracing for something that might break him. His voice was quiet, but it carried all the weight of the past week, every sleepless night, every unanswered question.

“Even that you love me?”

The words hung in the air, and suddenly the whole world felt like it had gone still. The city behind you—its lights, its noise, its constant motion—faded into silence. It was just the two of you, standing in the hush of the night, hearts exposed.

You let out a soft, unsteady laugh, the kind that trembled at the edges. “Unfortunately?” you said, voice catching. “Yeah. Even that. Especially that.”

And just like that, something in him gave way. His shoulders dropped, the tension he’d been carrying for days finally slipping off. He looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he’d been holding his breath and only now remembered how to let it go.

“I read it,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Every word. I kept waiting for the part where you’d pull back. Where you’d say it was just a joke, just part of the article. That none of it was real.”

You shook your head slowly, your voice steady now, even as your heart thudded painfully in your chest. “I stopped pretending a long time ago, Lando. I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

He stepped in slowly, like every inch mattered, like he was afraid one wrong move might send you running again. His voice was soft, but steady, full of something real. “I was angry,” he said. “And yeah, I was hurt. But I never stopped wanting you.”

Your chest tightened, the ache blooming all over again. “You hurt me too,” you said, the words quiet but sharp, because they still lived under your skin.

“I know.” He nodded, eyes never leaving yours. “And I’m sorry. For the bet. For not telling you the truth. For not fighting harder.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him, really looked—at the way his jaw was set, the way his eyes didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. You searched for hesitation, for some sign that he didn’t mean it. But there was nothing.

Lando’s hands found your face with a tenderness that made your breath catch, his thumbs brushing softly along your cheekbones like he was memorizing the shape of you. His eyes searched yours, wide open, no walls left between you.

“I love you,” he said, barely above a whisper—but there was nothing small about it. It was steady, certain, like he’d been carrying it for days and finally had the courage to let it out.

Your heart thudded so hard it felt like it might crack open. You smiled, tears stinging your eyes, and nodded. “I love you too.”

And for a moment, the world just… stopped. The city lights blurred into soft halos, the hum of traffic faded into silence, and time itself seemed to pause, giving you this one perfect breath.

Then he leaned in.

The kiss was gentle at first, hesitant, like you were both afraid to break the spell. But it deepened quickly, all that longing and ache and missed time pouring out between you. It was messy and real and everything you hadn’t known you needed until now.

When you finally pulled apart, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling, hearts pounding in sync. Lando smiled, that crooked grin that had undone you from the start. “So,” he murmured, “you really are hopelessly mine, huh?”

You laughed, the sound light and full of something that had been missing for far too long. “Absolutely,” you said, no hesitation.

The ten days were over. The game was done. But this—this was where the real story began.

© verstarris 2025

babs radio ! I’d love to thank you guys for the insane support & love I’ve been getting since HTLAGI10D part one dropped. Simply thank you for all the kind comments and especially numbers of likes! 💟 Now I finally can fully work on the tennis au I was talking about. I’m so excited but also nervous, I want this fic to be more “serious” than all my previous ones, so hopefully it will come out as good :) so yeah!