Ash

The villa is all white stucco and infinity pool and string lights draped between olive trees. Chris is doing a handstand in the shallow end. Nick is holding a flamingo float and someone’s yapping chihuahua. And there, in the background of a panoramic shot posted by the birthday girl herself, is Matt. With the Instagram girl tucked under his arm.

Not just standing next to him. Tucked. Her shoulder pressed to his ribs, her hand flat on his chest, her face tilted up toward his like she’s in the middle of laughing at something clever he just said. The next story is a boomerang: her leaning across his lap to grab a drink, his arm draped along the back of the pool lounger behind her, his fingertips grazing her bare shoulder. The loop plays forward and backward, forward and backward, a little metronome of misery.

Your thumb hovers over the screen. Your chest is doing something strange, expanding and contracting at the same time, as if your lungs can’t decide whether to hyperventilate or shut down entirely.

He’s living his life. He’s with the girl he actually wants. Everything that happened in your bed was just… what? A moment of weakness? A warm body? A secret he could lock behind a door and then walk away from?

The questions don’t have answers. You’ve been asking them for a week, and all you’ve gotten back is radio silence and polite texts you responded to with one-word answers. Fine. Yeah. Busy. You’ve been protecting yourself. Limiting contact, letting the distance solidify into something resembling armor, but it doesn’t matter. One glimpse of her hand on his chest and the armor shatters like it was never there.

The grief hits first. A cold, sinking weight in your stomach. Then the anger catches up, hot and fast, flooding your limbs with a prickling heat that makes your fingers curl against your phone case.

No. Absolutely not. I am not going to sit in this bedroom and rot while he plays couple’s retreat with someone he met two months ago. I am not going to be the sad girl in the oversized hoodie, scribbling her feelings onto paper like a Victorian ghost.

You yank open your contacts before you can talk yourself out of it.

August picks up on the second ring, which is a miracle given that he’s probably buried in textbooks or at the gym or doing whatever pre-law students do on a Saturday afternoon.

“Yo.” His voice is warm, familiar, the auditory equivalent of a fleece blanket. “To what do I owe the pleasure? You’ve been MIA for weeks.”

“Gus.” Your voice cracks on his name. You clear your throat. “I need to tell you something. Everything. And I need a favor. A big one.”

There’s a pause. The sound of a chair creaking, a door closing. When he speaks again, the teasing edge is gone. “I’m listening.”

So you tell him. All of it. The rainstorm and the kiss and the shower. You say that part fast, face burning, skipping the explicit details. You continue to tell him about the locked bedroom door and the “no regrets” confession and the Instagram girl’s voice on the phone and the five days of flu and the miserable dinner where you had to pretend you weren’t breaking apart. You contemplated on telling him about the letters but you ended up keeping the secret to yourself.

August doesn’t interrupt. He lets you spill until you’re empty, until the words run out and you’re just breathing into the phone, shaky and exposed.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.” Another pause. “What do you need from me?”

“There’s a birthday party. Today. A villa outside the city. He is there, with her. And I can’t—” Your voice catches. “I can’t walk in there alone, Gus. I can’t be the pathetic best friend who shows up by herself and watches him play boyfriend with someone else.”

“Say no more.” The firmness in his tone makes your eyes sting. “I’m there. What’s my role? Boyfriend? Date? Childhood friend who looks like he could bench-press Matt into next week?”

A wet laugh escapes you. “Childhood friend. Protective. Maybe a little flirty. Enough to make a point. I'll ask Chelsea too.”

“Excellent. I’m an excellent flirt. Ask anyone.” You can hear the grin in his voice. “Now go get dressed up. The good outfit. The one that makes you feel like you could set a building on fire just by walking past it. I’ll pick you up at five. Don't worry about Chelz.”

“Gus?” you say, just before he hangs up. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Thank me when the guy’s face turns purple.”

The dress is black. Simple, sleeveless, cut high on the thigh and low in the back. You bought it months ago on a whim, shoved it to the back of your closet because you never had the right occasion, and tonight it feels like armor forged specifically for this battle. You twist your hair up, letting a few pieces fall loose around your jaw. Eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass. A spritz of perfume—the one you never wear, the one that smells like amber and dark fruit and bad decisions.

When August pulls up, he lets out a low whistle through the open car window.

“Damn,” he says. “I said a building. You look like you could take out a city block.”

You slide into the passenger seat and immediately lean over to hug him, careful not to wrinkle the dress. He’s cleaned up too, a dark button-up, sleeves rolled to the elbows, that easy posture that makes him look like he belongs on a yacht somewhere. He smells like breathmints and something clean.

“You ready?” he asks, one hand on the gear shift.

“No.” You exhale. “But let’s go anyway.”

The villa appears at the end of a winding driveway lined with cypress trees, its windows spilling golden light into the deepening dusk. Bass thrums from somewhere around the back. Voices and laughter drift on the evening air. August parks the car between a Jeep and a Tesla, then turns to you.

“Ground rules,” he says. “One: I’m touching you. Not creepy, just… present. Hand on the back, arm around the waist, all that. That cool?”

You nod.

“Two: if you need to leave, you squeeze my arm twice and we’re gone. No questions, no apologies. Three: you’re the most stunning person here tonight. Walk like it.”

You step out of the car. The night air is warm, scented with jasmine and chlorine and the faint charcoal tang of a grill. August offers his arm. You loop yours through it, your fingers curling around the solid muscle of his bicep, and together you walk through the side gate into the dinner party.

Being with August makes you feel extra confident. He is standing a little over six feet, fit and effortlessly attractive, he was the kind of guy who commanded a room without trying. Most people at this party wouldn't have a clue who he was. Nick, Chris, and Matt only knew him from the endless stories you’d told over the years, but they’d never met him in person because his college schedule kept him completely buried.

He was the perfect ghost from your past. And tonight, he was exactly the armor you needed.

The patio is a postcard. A long wooden table set with candles and glasses, everyone seated around it mid-meal, the pool shimmering turquoise just beyond. The birthday girl spots you first.

“Oh my god!” She’s on her feet, napkin fluttering to the ground. “You came!”

Every single head turns.

You feel the gaze of thirty people land on you like a spotlight. Chris’s fork clatters against his plate. Nick’s wine glass pauses halfway to his lips. A few people you know from group outings gasp or grin or elbow their neighbors.

But you only care about one reaction.

Matt is sitting directly across the table, near the far end. The girl is next to him, her chair angled toward his, her arm resting on the table so her fingers brush his forearm. He’s mid-bite, or was, a second ago. Now he’s frozen, fork suspended, dark eyes locked on you with an intensity that feels like a physical blow.

His jaw tightens. You see it happen. The muscle beneath his beard flexes, hard, and his grip on his fork shifts until his knuckles go pale. His eyes drop. Not to your face, lower. To the dress. To the bare line of your shoulder, the curve of your hip, the way August’s hand rests at the small of your back. They track the point of contact like he’s watching a wound being made.

The girl leans over to whisper something in his ear. He doesn’t react. Doesn’t even blink. She pulls back, her expression flickering, and you catch the exact moment she realizes she’s lost his attention entirely.

“Sorry we’re late,” you say, aiming your brightest smile at the birthday girl. “Traffic was insane. Happy birthday.”

“You’re here! And you brought—” She gestures at August, eyes widening.

“August,” he supplies, extending a hand with easy charm. “An old friend. She promised me a good party.”

Chris recovers first. “You miraculously resurrected from the flu! We thought you were dead!”

“Death was boring,” you say, sliding into one of the two empty chairs August has already pulled out for you. His hand lingers on your lower back as you settle. Across the table, Matt’s chair scrapes against the stone, a harsh, involuntary sound, and he reaches for his wine glass like it might save him.

Nick tilts his head, that calculating gaze of his flicking between you, August, Matt, and back again. His eyebrows lift a millimeter. He says nothing. He doesn’t have to. The man could probably write a dissertation on what he just deduced in four seconds.

The girl turns toward you, and for the first time you’re face-to-face with her. Bright, confident eyes. A killer smile. Polished and put-together in a sleek white dress that looks expensive as fuck. She extends a hand.

“Hi! I’m—” she says her name, and you’ve heard it so many times from Matt’s lips that it clangs inside your skull. “I’ve been wanting to meet Matt's best friend properly. Matt talks about you all the time.”

Of course he does. You take her hand. Firm grip. Cool fingers. “Nice to meet you. He talks about you too.” The lie slips out smooth as silk.

Her smile widens, genuine and unsuspecting, and for a moment you feel a strange, unwelcome pang of sympathy. She doesn’t know. She’s just a girl who likes a guy, and the guy apparently can’t keep his eyes off someone else.

August seamlessly inserts himself into the conversation, asking Chris about some video project, trading jokes with Nick about candle scents, charming the entire table with the kind of effortless social grace that comes from years of debate club and large family gatherings. You laugh when he laughs, lean into his shoulder when he speaks, let your fingers brush his wrist when reaching for the salt. Every gesture is a performance. Every performance is aimed across the table.

Matt hasn’t eaten another bite. His wine glass, refilled three times, is already empty again. He sits like a statue carved from something hard and dark and volcanic, his gaze a physical weight you feel on your throat, your collarbone, the exposed skin of your shoulders. When August leans close to murmur something in your ear, bathroom’s to the left if you need an escape, Matt’s hand clenches around his napkin so tightly the fabric twists into a knot.

The girl tries again. She rests her palm on his forearm, fingers curling, and says something you can’t hear over the music. Matt nods. That’s it. A single, mechanical dip of his chin. He doesn’t look at her. His eyes are still on you.

You take a long sip of water to hide the tremor in your hand.

Dinner ends in a blur of cleared plates and refilled drinks. The patio lights shift from warm amber to neon violet, and someone cranks the playlist until the bass vibrates in your chest. The crowd migrates toward the pool deck, where the stone tiles become an impromptu dance floor under the string lights.

August catches your hand. “We’re dancing.”

“We are?”

“We are.” He pulls you up before you can protest, and then you’re moving. The music is heavy, driving, the kind of beat that demands your hips, your shoulders, the sway of your spine. August matches you effortlessly.

The bass drops and your hips answer before your brain catches up.

August spins you once, twice, his hand finding the curve of your waist with the ease of someone who's danced with you at a dozen weddings and house parties over the years. His smile is wide, genuine, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "There she is," he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. "I was wondering when you'd let yourself have fun."

"I'm having fun." The words come out breathless, surprised. You realize they're true.

The neon lights shift from violet to gold, catching the sequins on someone's dress, the ripples on the pool's surface. Around you, the dance floor swells with bodies, the birthday girl twirling in the center, Chris doing something ridiculous with his elbows, Nick swaying with a drink still in hand like he's at a cocktail lounge instead of a pool party. The music is heavy synth and driving bass, the kind that makes your ribcage vibrate.

You let your head fall back. The stars are out now, scattered across the black sky like someone threw a handful of salt. The cypress trees frame them perfectly. For the first time in a week, you aren't calculating. You aren't performing. You're just moving. Just breathing. Just existing in a body that doesn't ache with fever or heartbreak or the lingering ghost of his hands.

August catches your eye and mimes taking a drink. You nod, still swaying, and he peels off toward the bar setup near the grill. The bartender in the tight black tank top gives him a nod. You watch August lean against the counter, easy and relaxed, striking up a conversation with the guy like they've known each other for years. That's August. He could charm a brick wall.

You keep dancing. The song shifts into something slower, heavier, and you close your eyes for a moment, letting the music pull you under.

A shadow falls over you, and when you open your eyes, Nick is stepping into your space, matching your rhythm with an easy, casual sway. He leans down, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as his voice cuts through the bass.

"You didn't tell me your Gus was hot as fuck," Nick says, nodding toward the bar where August is laughing with the bartender. Then, his eyes soften slightly, his calculating gaze searching your face. "You okay? For real?"

"Never been better," you say, flashing him a bright, effortless smile.

It was a lie.

When Nick offers a satisfied nod and drifts back toward the crowd, your gaze wanders across the patio, searching. It doesn't take long. Your eyes find the outdoor couches.

Matt is still there.

He's sunk into the cushions like a man attending a funeral. The girl is beside him, angled toward him, her hand resting on his forearm. She's talking, her lips moving, her phone held up to show him something on the screen. A meme, probably. A story. Something she expects him to laugh at.

He doesn't look at it.

His head is turned. Toward the dance floor. Toward you.

The distance between you is maybe thirty feet, but the weight of his stare makes it feel like inches. His jaw is set, the muscle beneath his beard flexing in that rhythm you've come to recognize. His wine glass—another one, or maybe the same one refilled—dangles from his fingers at a dangerous angle. He's not drinking it. He's just holding it. Forgetting it exists.

The girl touches his chin. Actually reaches up and tries to turn his face toward her.

Matt's head moves. An inch. Two. He looks at her for a fraction of a second, and even from across the pool deck you can see the blankness in his expression, the way his eyes don't focus on her at all. Then he's looking back at you.

She drops her hand.

Her shoulders shift. Even from here, you can read the body language. The slight slump. The way she pulls back, reaching for her own drink now, filling the silence with a long sip. She's confused. Hurt, maybe. She has no idea what's happening, why the guy who invited her here, who she spent all afternoon draped across, has suddenly turned into a statue.

What the actual hell are you doing, Matt, you think. You wanted her. You said she was your type. There's no anger in the thought now, just a hollow kind of bewilderment. You don't understand him. You've never understood him. Even when his hands were on your body and his mouth was on your neck, you couldn't figure out what was happening inside his head. And now, sitting next to his "dream girl", he's still staring at you like you're the only person in the villa.

The song ends. Another begins. August returns with two glasses of something cold and sparkling.

"Who's the girl?" he asks, following your gaze.

"His latest crush. His dream girl, he said."

August looks between you and Matt. Takes a sip.

"Yikes," he says. "Dude looks like someone hit his dog."

You laugh. It comes out sharper than you intended.

Later, the party migrates.

Someone produces a deck of cards, and suddenly everyone is gathered around the massive stone fire pit, flames leaping into the night, sparks spiraling up toward the stars. The birthday girl has claimed a throne-like chair near the center, her red hair glowing in the firelight. Chris is already shuffling with the kind of chaotic energy that promises at least three cards will end up in the pool. Nick has produced a citronella candle from somewhere and set it beside his chair, because of course he has.

You and August claim a cushioned bench near the edge of the firelight, close enough to feel the heat, far enough that the shadows soften everything. He drapes his arm along the back of the seat behind you, not quite touching, but present. You lean into the warmth of him without thinking.

"The game is Bullshit," Chris announces, dealing cards with theatrical flair. "Also known as Cheat. Also known as I'm Going to Destroy All of You."

"Also known as Chris is a terrible liar," Nick adds.

"You're a terrible liar."

"I'm an excellent liar. I just choose to use my powers for good."

The game begins. Cards slap down. Voices overlap. Accusations fly. You call Chris's bluff on a pile of supposed fours, and when he flips the cards to reveal two sevens and a nine, the entire circle erupts in groans. He has to snatch up the growing pile, muttering about "rigged shuffling" while Nick smirks into his drink.

August leans close, his breath warm near your ear. "Remember that time at Chelsea's birthday when you tried to bluff with a full house and immediately forgot what you'd put down?"

You swat his arm. "I was nineteen and very drunk."

"You were twenty and completely sober."

"Shut up."

You're both laughing, the kind of easy, bubbling laughter that comes from years of shared history. Your shoulders shake. Your eyes water. August is grinning at you, that familiar, brotherly grin, and for a moment the firelight catches his face and makes him look almost golden.

"Your turn."

The voice cuts through the laughter like a blade.

Matt's voice. Flat. Clipped. The kind of tone that doesn't ask for attention, it demands it.

You look over. He's sitting across the fire pit, the girl still beside him, though she's no longer trying to touch him. Her hands are folded in her lap. Her expression is carefully neutral. Matt is holding his cards like he might snap them in half. The firelight carves shadows under his cheekbones, makes his dark eyes look cavernous.

You play your card. He plays his. The round continues.

Every time it's Matt's turn, his voice is rough. Short. A single word followed by the slap of cardboard on stone. He doesn't joke. Doesn't bluff. Doesn't even try. He just plays his cards with mechanical precision, as if the game is a sentence he's serving.

"Dude." Chris leans forward, squinting at his brother. "You okay over there? You're acting like someone cancelled your Netflix subscription."

Matt doesn't answer. He glares. Actual glares. The kind of look that could wilt houseplants. Then he tosses his remaining cards onto the table, the motion sharp and dismissive, and reaches for his cup.

He doesn't drink from it. He just holds it. Like the wine glass earlier. Like he's forgotten what his hands are for.

Chris exchanges a look with Nick. Nick's eyebrows lift a millimeter. Neither of them says anything. They don't have to. The whole table has noticed. The party, the game, the easy chaos, it all carries on, but there's a pocket of silence around Matt now, a gravitational pull that everyone is politely pretending not to feel.

August's hand finds your shoulder. Squeezes once. A silent check-in. You give him the smallest nod.

Midnight passes. The fire burns lower. The playlist shifts to something ambient, and the crowd thins as people drift off toward the villa's bedrooms. The birthday girl stands, stretches, and makes the announcement.

"Okay, everyone! Bedrooms upstairs are ready. There's like six guest rooms, so pair up, triple up, whatever. Couples get priority on the rooms with king beds." She winks at someone in the crowd. "Everyone else, fight to the death."

People start gathering their things. Nick and Chris are already pointing toward the staircase, debating which room has the better view. The girl beside Matt stands, brushing off her dress, and glances down at him with an expression that's half hope and half exhaustion.

You catch August's eye. Give him the signal. A small tilt of your head, a question in your raised brows. He reads it instantly.

"Actually, guys?" Your voice cuts through the chatter, casual and bright. "We're gonna head out."

The table goes quiet.

Chris turns, his jacket half-draped over one arm. "Wait, what? You're not staying for day two? There's supposed to be a brunch tomorrow. Bottomless mimosas. The whole thing."

You shake your head, already reaching for your bag. "I just wanted to drop by for the birthday dinner. I've got— We've got plans back home tomorrow. Early stuff. You know how it is."

"Plans?" Nick's voice is skeptical. "What plans?"

"Important plans. Very important. Top secret plans."

"That's not suspicious at all."

August rises beside you, his hand finding the curve of your waist with practiced ease. "She promised me a rematch at Mario Kart," he says smoothly. "And I intend to collect."

Chris snorts. Nick rolls his eyes. The tension breaks, just a little, and the normal rhythm of teasing picks up again. They're disappointed, but they accept it. They always do. That's the thing about being the quiet one, the one who blends into the background. People don't question it when you slip away.

August's arm loops around your waist as he guides you toward the driveway. His palm is warm through the thin fabric of your dress, grounding, steady. You lean into him without thinking, your body grateful for the anchor.

At the edge of the patio, you glance back.

The girl is standing now, still beside the fire pit, her phone in her hand. She's not looking at her screen. She's looking at her feet. Ignored. Forgotten. A prop in a scene she didn't know she was part of. Something twists in your chest, not guilt exactly, something softer. Sympathy, maybe. She didn't do anything wrong. She's just a girl who likes a guy who can't stop staring at someone else.

But you didn't do anything wrong either. You didn't ask Matt to ignore her. You didn't ask him to follow you with his eyes all night. You didn't even talk to him. This was his doing. His choice. His silent, suffocating sulking.

And then you see him.

Matt has stood up from the couch. He's taken three steps toward the driveway, away from the fire pit, away from her. His hands are at his sides, curled into loose fists. His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the tendons in his neck. His eyes are locked on you with something that looks less like anger and more like desperation. He looks like a man watching something slip through his fingers. He looks like he's about to run.

But he doesn't. He can't. The crowd is between you now, people saying goodnights and gathering bags and blocking the path. Nick claps a hand on his shoulder, asking him something. The girl touches his elbow, tentative, confused. He's trapped. By his own choices. By the party. By the role he's supposed to be playing.

You turn away.

The gravel crunches under your heels. August opens the passenger door for you, and you slide into the cool darkness of the car. The door closes. The music, the firelight, the voices all muffle into a distant hum.

August gets behind the wheel. The engine turns over. The headlights sweep across the cypress trees, and then you're rolling down the winding driveway, leaving the villa behind.

Neither of you speaks for the first five minutes.

The road unspools in the dark, headlights cutting a path through the night. The radio is off. The window is cracked, letting in the scent of jasmine and dry grass. Your body is still thrumming with adrenaline, but it's fading now, the high receding like a tide pulling back from the shore.

"That was intense," August finally says.

You exhale. "Yeah."

"He didn't look away from you. Not once. The whole night."

"I know."

"Even when she was literally touching his face. I thought he was going to swat her hand like a fly."

"I know, Gus."

He glances at you, then back at the road. "You okay?"

The question lands somewhere in your chest. Are you okay? You should feel triumphant. You walked in looking like a weapon and you left him burning in his own misery. You proved something, to yourself and to him. You aren't a placeholder. You aren't a secret. You aren't just the safe, comfortable best friend who waits in the wings while he chases other girls.

But the triumph feels hollow. Underneath it, there's just the same old ache, the same impossible want, the same bruise that never quite heals.

"I don't know," you say. "Ask me tomorrow."

The rest of the drive is quiet.

August pulls up to your front door and kills the engine. The porch light is on, a warm yellow glow that your mom always leaves burning when you're out late. You sit in the passenger seat for a moment, staring at it, and then you turn to him.

"Thank you," you say. The words feel ridiculously inadequate. "For everything. For the whole night. For being my armor."

"You don't have to thank me."

"I do, though." You unbuckle your seatbelt and lean across the console to hug him. Tight. The kind of hug that says everything you can't put into words. He wraps his arms around you, solid and warm, and for a moment you just breathe.

When you pull back, you manage a small smile. "Tell Chelsea thank you too. For letting me borrow her boyfriend for the night."

August grins. "She said to tell you she expects full details over brunch next week. And that if Matt so much as looked at you wrong, she'd key his car."

"She doesn't even know what his car looks like."

"She'd figure it out. Chelsea's resourceful."

You laugh. It's watery and tired, but it's real. You squeeze his hand once more, then slip out of the car and up the front steps. He waits until you're inside, the door closed and locked, before driving away. The taillights fade into the dark.

The house is silent.

Your mom has gone to bed. The kitchen is clean, the living room dark, the only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator. You kick off your heels in the entryway and pad down the hall in bare feet, your dress rustling against your thighs. The night feels like a dream already, something that happened to someone else, a performance you gave that's now over.

Your bedroom door clicks shut behind you.

The vanilla candle has burned down to a stub. The scent of it still hangs in the air, faint and sweet, layered with something else. Something that doesn't belong. The faintest trace of him, maybe his cologne, his detergent, clinging to the pillowcase, the air, the memory. You stand in the center of the room for a long moment, just breathing, as the armor of the night sloughs off you piece by piece.

The dress comes off first. You drape it over the back of your desk chair. The earrings, the necklace, the sharp-edged eyeliner you wipe away with a makeup wipe from your nightstand drawer. You pull on an old t-shirt, the band logo faded and cracked, and a fresh pair of the same black boyshorts you wore last time.

You sit at your desk.

The notebook is where you left it, tucked in the drawer beneath a stack of old pens and a dried-out highlighter. You pull it out. Flip past the angry scrawl of I'm done, past the tear-smudged ink, past the words you wrote five days ago when you thought your heart couldn't break any further.

A fresh page.

Your hand shakes as you pick up the pen. Not from nerves. From exhaustion. From the weight of everything you're still carrying.

Matt,

The pen scratches across the paper, and the words come like blood from a wound.

You looked absolutely miserable tonight. Good. I hope it burned. I hope watching me with him made your chest ache the exact same way mine did when I saw those stories of her attached to your hip this afternoon.

You sat next to her all night, but your eyes never left me. Did she notice? Did she feel like a ghost sitting next to you, the same way I felt like a secret when you left my bed to go back to your real life? Probably to her.

You pause. Breathe. The pen hovers.

I brought him tonight because I needed armor. I needed to prove to myself—and to you—that I don't belong to you just because you decided you couldn't control yourself. I'm not a placeholder you get to lock away in a dark bedroom when you're lonely, only to pretend I'm just "one of the bros" the second the sun comes up.

If you truly don't regret anything, you shouldn't have looked like you were suffocating every time he touched my waist.

The words keep coming, faster now, your handwriting compressing into something tight and urgent.

You looked so handsome tonight. It's pathetic that I even noticed. It's pathetic that while I was laughing and dancing with someone else, my skin was still burning with the memory of your hands on me.

I didn't stay the night. I left you there in that villa with her, because I knew that if I stayed, the quiet would find us again. Another locked door. Another heavy silence. Another time where I let myself be weak.

And I'm done breaking my own heart just to keep your secrets.

You stop. The pen trembles against the page. One last line forms, slow and deliberate, the letters pressed so deep they leave grooves in the paper.

Close your eyes and sleep next to her, Matt. I hope my face is the only thing you see in the dark.

Below it, in smaller script, almost an afterthought:

💔 Little Miss Fragile

You set the pen down.

The letter sits on the desk, ink glossy under the lamplight. The house is silent. The candle has burned out. Somewhere across the city, Matt is in a villa guest room with a girl he doesn't love, staring at a ceiling, replaying the image of August's hand on your waist.

Or maybe he's not. Maybe he's already asleep. Maybe none of it matters to him the way it matters to you. Maybe they are deep into love making. The thought hurts like a physical blow, a sudden, sharp ache that leaves you entirely breathless in the dark.

You don't know. You'll never know. That's the whole point of the box, isn't it? Words you write but never send. Confessions that live and die in the dark.

You fold the letter carefully, your fingers still trembling. The paper creases. You press it flat.

Then you open the closet door and pull out the old blanket.

You scroll, heart hammering, as the numbers climb. TikTok notifications start pinging next, edits, already! Someone set the photos to a slowed-down version of some trending song, zooming in on your face, your waist, the way the shorts hit your hips. The caption reads: the triplets' secret weapon??? who is this mysterious girl and why is she serving harder than anyone at this party

Your DMs are flooded. Guys you've never heard of, some with verified checkmarks, some just bold, sending variations of the same thing. Hey. Love the new merch. You single? One of them, a guy with a surf brand and too many shirtless photos, sends a voice memo. You don't listen to it.

The phone keeps buzzing. You set it face-down on the couch cushion and press your palms against your thighs, trying to breathe.

Three days later, Chris insists on lunch.

The restaurant is one of those bright, plant-filled places in Silver Lake, all white tile and hanging ferns. You slide into the booth across from Nick, who's already nursing a Slurpee, while Chris flags down the server with the energy of a golden retriever who just spotted a squirrel.

"The internet is obsessed with you," Chris announces, phone already in hand. "Obsessed. Like, clinically. I think you've broken TikTok."

"Don't be dramatic."

"I'm not dramatic. I'm factual." He scrolls, grinning. "Oh, oh, wait. This one's my favorite." He clears his throat theatrically and reads aloud: "'If the hot merch girl and Chris don't start dating immediately, I'm deleting my account. Like the tension in those bts shots is actually illegal.'" Chris slaps the table, delighted. "See? The people have spoken. You and I. Ship name: C—" He pauses, frowning. "Wait, what even is our ship name?"

Matt's voice cuts in from your left, dry and flat. "That's two comments, Chris. I just found ten shipping her with me."

You turn. He's slouched in the booth, one arm draped over the back of the seat, scrolling his own phone with practiced disinterest. His jaw flexes slightly when he glances up at his brother.

"Ten? Okay, show me the receipts."

Matt tilts his screen. "'The way he adjusted her collar... that's a man in love, your honor.' 'Chemistry. Period.' 'If you don't see the heart eyes Matt was giving her in that bts footage, you're blind.'" He recites them without inflection, like he's reading a grocery list, but his eyes flick to yours briefly before returning to the phone.

Chris snorts. "Cherry-picked. I could find fifty that ship her with me. Look—" He taps furiously. "'Chris and the mystery girl were so cute in the bts, the way he was cheering on her??? Friends to lovers pipeline, I'm calling it now.'"

"That's one."

"I'm still scrolling."

Nick sets his drink down with a deliberate clink. Both brothers pause. Nick holds up his phone, expression utterly serene. "The audience has spoken," he says. "And by 'the audience,' I mean a statistically significant sample size." He swivels the screen toward the table. It's a fan-made poll. Who should the merch girl end up with? Matt has 34%. Chris has 25%. Nick has 41% with the label the stable choice in bold.

Chris gapes. "The stable choice?"

Nick shrugs, the picture of modesty. "People appreciate emotional maturity. And good candle taste. Pretty nails too."

You burst out laughing—a real, surprised laugh that bubbles up from your chest. Nick's lips twitch with satisfaction. You raise your palm and he meets it with a crisp high-five, the sound echoing off the white tile.

"Finally," you say, "someone with taste."

Matt doesn't laugh. He doesn't add a dry comment or roll his eyes. He just watches you and Nick with his jaw set tight, thumb frozen over his phone screen, as still as a photograph.

The check arrives. Chris glances at his phone and his eyes go wide. "Shit. Meeting. Across town. Twenty minutes."

"What meeting?" you ask, pausing with your drink halfway to your mouth.

"We're meeting with a distributor," Nick says. "Chris and I are planning a new project together, and if we miss this window, we're screwed for the month."

"We're not gonna make it," Chris says, already sliding out of the booth and grabbing his keys.

"We'll make it if we don't hit traffic."

"Done. I'm driving," Chris says, already jingling the keys.

"You are driving, but I’m navigating," Nick says flatly, snatching the copilot spot before Chris can even unlock the doors.

In the parking lot, the four of you pile into the car. Chris backs out of the space while Nick pulls up the map on his phone, checking the traffic before glancing back at you and Matt in the rearview mirror. "Okay, Chris, if you drop them at the turnoff before the highway ramp, it’s like three blocks from the house. You guys good to walk from there?"

You nod. Matt shrugs.

Chris pulls over at the corner of a quiet residential street, the kind lined with old oak trees and cracked sidewalks that lift at the edges. You and Matt climb out, Nick already leaning forward to mess with the aux cord, and the car peels away before you've even fully closed the door.

Silence settles. Not the uncomfortable kind. The easy kind. The familiar kind that reminds you of years of afternoons sprawled on couches, of late-night drives and lazy mornings. You fall into step beside him, shoulders almost brushing, and the world feels startlingly normal.

"Can't believe Nick's the stable one," you say, kicking a pebble along the sidewalk. "I always had him pegged as the wildcard."

"Nick is a menace. Those polls are rigged."

"Sure, sure."

He bumps your shoulder lightly with his. "Chris is gonna be insufferable about this for weeks."

"Like he isn't already."

Matt laughs—low and genuine, the kind that rumbles in his chest and makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. You let yourself sink into the sound. Into the easiness. Into the way his hand swings close enough to yours that you could reach out and thread your fingers through his if you were brave.

"So," you say after a moment, "how are things going with the Instagram girl? She still talking to you?"

The question feels safer than it should. Distance from the topic, maybe. Or just the old, familiar armor of the wingman.

Matt shrugs, eyes ahead. "We haven't really talked since she cancelled on the shoot."

"Wait, what? I thought you guys were hitting it off at the pool party."

"I guess she's busy." He says it without weight, without the wistful sigh he used to carry when talking about her. Like the information is incidental. "Enough abot her. What about you? Your DMs must be insane right now."

You laugh dryly. "Oh, yeah. Some surfer guy sent me a voice memo. I haven't listened to it."

"You should. Maybe he's profound."

"Maybe he's a serial killer."

"Worth the risk." He glances at you sideways, mouth quirking. "Girl goes viral and suddenly she's too good for random DM guys."

"Shut up."

"I'm just saying. You've got options now."

"Don't want options," you murmur, more to yourself than to him. The words hang in the air a beat too long, and you rush to fill the silence. "I mean, it's funny. That's all. I don't really care about any of it."

Matt doesn't respond, but something in his posture shifts. Subtle. A slight straightening of his spine. A barely-there curl at the corner of his mouth.

One moment you're walking in the bright, golden afternoon light, and the next, a crack of thunder fractures the air overhead, loud enough to make you jump. But the sky doesn't darken. Instead, the bright blue sky unzips all at once, letting a torrential downpour hit onto the pavement while the sun keeps beating down. It's immediate, heavy, and blinding, the rain so thick and sudden it feels like a giant bucket tipped over directly through the sunlight.

You scream.

Actually scream, a startled, laughing shriek, and then you're running. Your sneakers slap the wet pavement, ponytail whipping behind you, rain plastering your shirt to your skin in seconds. The triplets' house is visible now, their front porch a beacon in the gray sheets of water.

You make it to the porch and collapse against the door, gasping, dripping, laughing at the sheer absurdity of it.

And then you turn around.

Matt is still on the sidewalk. Walking. Not running. Not hurrying. Just walking with the same casual, long-legged stride he always uses, his dark hair flattened against his forehead, his white shirt already transparent and clinging to the lines of his chest. He looks utterly unbothered, as if the sky hasn't just declared war on the entire block.

"What are you doing?" you shout over the roar of the rain. "You're insane! Get over here!"

He reaches the porch steps but doesn't climb them. Instead he stands there, looking up at you with water streaming down his face, and smiles. It's a slow, unguarded smile. One you haven't seen before.

"It's just rain," he says.

And then he takes your hand.

His fingers wrap around yours, warm even through the cold wetness, and he tugs. Gently. Pulling you off the porch and back into the downpour. You stumble forward, your bare feet landing in a shallow puddle on the sidewalk, and when you look up at him he's still smiling.

Then he lifts your joined hands high toward the sunlit sky as he tilts his head back. His eyes close, entirely yielding to the downpour.

Slowly, you copy him. You close your eyes and tilt your face upward, letting the heavy, rain drops wash over your skin. The two of you just stand there on the sidewalk, completely soaked, breathing in the rain, suspended together in the middle of the sun-drenched storm.

He puts your joined hands down and you open your eyes.

Matt's face is inches from yours.

The rain frames him like a photograph, dark lashes clumped with water, a droplet tracing the sharp line of his jaw, his lips slightly parted. His hands release yours and find your face instead, palms warm against the cold of your cheeks, thumbs resting at the corners of your mouth.

He kisses you.

His lips press against yours, rain-slick and soft, and your mind goes entirely blank. No thought. No nothing. Just the sensation of his mouth on yours, the warmth of his hands cupping your face, the roar of the storm around you.

He pulls back.

A fraction. A heartbeat. His eyes lock onto yours, dark and searching, and you can feel his breath against your wet lips. The question is there, unspoken, hanging in the space between your mouths.

He kisses you again.

This time, you kiss him back.

Your hands grip the sides of his soaked shirt. Your lips move against his, slow, learning, pressing and releasing in a rhythm that feels like a language you didn't know you spoke. His tongue brushes your bottom lip and a sound escapes your throat, something between a gasp and a sigh. The rain keeps falling. You don't care. You don't care about anything except the heat of his mouth and the solid presence of his body against yours.

What is happening, you think, the words distant and foreign. What is happening. What is happening.

He breaks the kiss and you both stand there, breathing hard, rain still sheeting down. His forehead presses against yours.

"We need to get inside," he says, voice rough. "Shower. Before we get sick."

You nod, not trusting your own voice.

He leads you into the house by the hand, dripping a trail across the living room floor, up the stairs, down the hallway to the bathroom. The fluorescent light buzzes on overhead. Matt turns the shower knob, steam already curling into the air.

His hands find the hem of your soaked shirt.

"Arms up," he murmurs.

You raise your arms. He peels the fabric over your head, and it lands on the tile with a wet slap. His eyes travel down your body—your bare shoulders, the simple black bra, the goosebumps rising on your skin—and something in his expression flickers. Hunger, maybe. Or wonder. Something you've never seen directed at you before.

Your hands move on their own, unbuttoning your jeans, pushing the wet denim down your legs. You step out of them, kick them aside. Matt's shirt is already off, and your gaze catches on the lean muscle of his chest, the way water still clings to his collarbones. He's in just his black boxer briefs now, the fabric clinging in a way that leaves very little to the imagination. You swallow hard.

He opens the glass shower door. Warm steam billows out, fogging the mirror.

You step in first. The water hits your skin and it's perfect—hot enough to chase away the chill of the rain, to loosen the knot of tension in your shoulders. You tilt your head back, letting the stream soak your hair, run down your neck and back. For a moment, you forget he's behind you.

Then his hands grip your waist.

He turns you, slowly, until you're both under the water. The stream cascades over his hair, plastering it to his forehead. One rivulet traces the line of his nose, curves around his lips. He's so close. So close you can count his wet eyelashes.

He kisses you again.

Deeper this time. Slower. His hands slide from your waist to your back, fingers finding the clasp of your bra. A pause. A question in the way his fingertips rest against the hooks.

"Okay?" he breathes against your mouth.

"Okay."

The clasp comes undone. He draws the straps down your shoulders, freeing your breasts, and the fabric falls forgotten to the shower floor.

His hands cup you. Gentle at first, just holding, as if memorizing the weight and shape of you. His thumbs brush over your nipples and your head falls back. A moan slips out before you can stop it.

"God," he whispers.

Then his mouth is on you.

He kisses down your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breast. When his lips close around your nipple, slow and warm and startlingly wet, your hands fly to his hair. You grip the dark, soaked strands and hold on. He sucks gently, tongue tracing a slow circle, and the sensation travels straight down to your core. Your knees threaten to buckle.

"You're—" you start, but the word dissolves into another moan.

He switches to your other breast, equally slow, equally deliberate, and you feel like you're floating. The steam surrounds you. The water pounds against your back. His mouth works against your skin with a patience that makes your head spin.

Then he turns you around.

Your palms press flat against the wet tile. The cool of the shower wall contrasts with the heat of him behind you. His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties and he drags them down your legs. You step out of them.

His body presses against your back. His mouth finds the curve of your neck, breath hot against the sensitive skin just below your ear. And lower, much lower, you feel him. The hard, insistent press of his cock against the cleft of your ass. Even through the fabric of his briefs, the heat of him is unmistakable. The size of him.

"Can I?" he whispers. The words are barely audible over the shower, a vibration against your skin.

"Yes."

He shifts. One hand leaves the tile beside yours, and you hear the rustle of wet fabric. Then he's there again, closer now, skin against skin. He guides himself, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and for one suspended moment your whole body stills.

He pushes inside.

Slow. Inch by deliberate inch. The stretch is immense, a fullness that makes your mouth fall open and your nails scrape against the tile. He feels huge. He feels like he's claiming territory, marking space inside you that no one else has ever touched. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps.

"Oh my god," you whisper.

"Are you—"

"Don't stop. Please don't stop."

He doesn't.

He moves inside you with long, deep strokes, his hands finding your breasts again. His thumbs circle your nipples as his hips press forward, and the dual sensation is overwhelming. Broken sounds fall from your lips, half words, half pleas, and the rhythm builds until it's the only thing you can feel.

His hand leaves your breast and slides down your stomach. Lower. His fingers find your clit.

The touch is electric. He rubs slow circles, matching the pace of his thrusts, and the pressure inside you coils tighter and tighter. Your vision narrows. The water sounds distant. The world shrinks to the point of contact between his fingers and your body, the steady drive of him inside you.

"I'm—" The word fractures. "Matt, I'm—"

"Let go," he murmurs against your ear. "I've got you."

The orgasm hits like a wave. No—not a wave, something sharper than that. A chord snapping. A light switching on so bright it whites out everything else. Your body clenches around him, pulse after pulse, and you cry out, the sound echoing off the shower walls.

Three more thrusts. Four. Then he pulls out with a ragged groan, and you feel the warmth of him spilling against your thighs. He presses his forehead to your shoulder, breathing hard, his chest heaving against your back.

He turns you around.

Kisses you. Soft this time. Tender. His hands cup your face just like they did in the rain.

Neither of you speaks.

He reaches for the soap. Lathers it between his palms and begins to work it across your shoulders, your back, your stomach. You do the same for him—your hands sliding over the planes of his chest, tracing the ridges of his abdomen, his tattooed arms. It's intimate in a different way. Careful. Devoted. He smiles at you, tentative and wondering.

You smile back.

Wrapped in towels that are far too large, he leads you to his bedroom. The room smells like him, that same cologne, fabric softener, the vague warmth of electronics. He pulls open a drawer and hands you a t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. His. Both swallow your frame.

"Laundry," he says, gesturing to the pile of wet clothes in your hands. "I'll throw them in. Be right back."

He disappears through the doorway. You're alone in his room, standing barefoot on the carpet, wearing his clothes.

Your mind spins. What just happened. Did that happen. Is this real. Is this a dream. Are we still friends. Are we more than friends. What do I even say now. Do I bring it up. Do I pretend we didn't just—

But when he returns, you don't say any of it. You don't want to ruin the moment. This fragile, impossible moment that feels like it could break at any second.

He climbs onto the bed and opens his arms. You crawl into them.

He pulls you against his chest. Your head finds the hollow of his shoulder, the same place it's been a hundred times during movie nights and lazy afternoons. His arm wraps around your back. His chin rests on top of your head. The silence settles, comfortable and familiar, and you realize: this is what you always did. Being quiet together. That was the foundation of everything.

Your eyes grow heavy.

When you wake, the light is still golden outside the window. Late afternoon, maybe. Your clothes—folded neatly on the dresser. Dry. Warm.

Matt is still asleep beside you, one arm draped across the empty space where you'd been. His face is relaxed, mouth slightly open, breathing deep and even. You watch him for a moment, memorizing the way his lashes rest against his cheeks.

Then you slip out of bed. Quiet. Careful. You gather your clothes and change in the bathroom, and then you're walking out the front door, leaving only the faint scent of his shampoo behind.

The second you get home, you rush to your room. You kick off your shoes, grab a pen, and pull your notebook off the desk. Throwing yourself onto the bed, you sit cross-legged, pen in hand, the blank page staring up at you. You are desperate to write everything down but your thoughts are a hurricane, spinning, colliding, refusing to settle into anything coherent.

You wrote beautiful letters on napkins. On receipts. On the backs of old confessions. But this?

Your hand moves before your brain catches up. The pen scratches aggressively across the paper, no preamble, no greeting, no carefully crafted sentences.

WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT MATT???

You stare at the scrawl. Jagged letters. Ink bleeding slightly at the edges where you pressed too hard. It's not elegant. It's not romantic. It's the most honest thing you've written in years.

It's been hours of staring at the almost blank page, thinking what else to tell him when the phone rings.

You jolt, glancing at the screen. Chris. You pick up.

"Hey."

"Where you at? We're going out to dinner. You're coming."

"I—"

Nick's voice cuts in, distant at first, then closer as he takes the phone. "We're putting you on speaker. Get dressed. We're picking you up in twenty."

"There's this new place downtown," Chris adds. "Supposed to be incredible. I already called dibs on the truffle fries."

"I don't know, I'm sort of—"

Then you hear it.

Her voice. Bright, confident, unmistakable. "Oh my god, tell her to come! I've been wanting to meet her properly. The photos were gorgeous."

The Instagram girl. Matt had shown you enough of her reels for you to remember her voice. She's with them?

Your heart drops. A physical plummet, a sickening lurch in your chest that makes your stomach clench. She's there. At the house. With Matt. The same Matt who just hours ago was inside you, his mouth on your breast, his hands cupping your face in the rain.

A sneeze. You fake it from somewhere deep in your panic, sharp and sudden into the receiver.

"Oh, shoot. Scuse me." you say, voice deliberately hoarse. "I think I'm coming down with something. Probably from getting caught in that rain earlier. I'm sorry, guys, I should probably stay in."

A pause. Then Matt's voice, urgent and immediate. "You're sick? Are you okay?"

The concern in his tone is a knife. You feel it slide between your ribs.

"I'll be fine," you say, the words coming out too fast. "Just need rest. You guys have fun, okay? Bye."

You hang up before anyone can argue.

The phone falls onto the mattress. Your hands are shaking. Your eyes burn. You grab the notebook again, flip to the same page as before, and press the pen so hard the tip nearly tears through.

How could you do this to me? Don't ever look at me again. Don't talk to me.

Don't you dare act like you care if I'm okay.

I'm done.

A tear falls. It lands on the page, smearing the fresh ink, blurring the word done until it's almost illegible.

You don't wipe it away.

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