“Suit yourself,” I say, reaching for my bag, not bothering to hide the edge in my voice.
He watches me for a second longer, then grabs his change of clothes and disappears into the bathroom. The door shuts with a soft click, sealing off whatever storm is still brewing inside him.
I let out a breath and peel off the dress that’s seen too much tonight. My nightshirt slips over my head, cotton soft and safe. Unlike everything else right now. I climb into bed and lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quietsounds of water running and regret pooling just beneath my ribs.
That’s when I make the mistake of looking at my phone. More photos of me and Nash have hit the internet, along with more comments.
@GiddyUpCowboys:Didn’t know Sam Stone’s sister was so thirsty.
@NashStachLover: No way she’s not using him for clout!
@MissyLovesD: Another buckle bunny trying to ride her way to relevance…
@CountryTangle: Wowwww. Phern Stone is NOT who Nash should be with! He can do so much better!
The words aren’t even clever. Just cruel. Careless. But they land. Right where they’re meant to.
I stare at the screen, thumb frozen, heart thudding louder than it should. It’s not even the worst thing anyone’s said today. But this one? This one gets in. Because the thing is… they’re right.
Nash is charming. Accomplished. Revered. He’s steady and kind and already been through enough. And me? I’m a half-broken girl with an unfinished career, a complicated past, and the tendency to fall for men who never fully show up.
I bite the inside of my cheek, throat tightening.
Nashcando better than me.
So can Will…
The screen blurs slightly as tears well—silent, embarrassed, unwelcome. But I don’t cry because I believe them.
I cry because a part of me always has.
I set the phone down and press the heels of my hands into my eyes.
The bathroom door opens, and Will steps out, barefoot, his T-shirt clinging to his chest and his hair damp from a quick rinse.
He freezes the second he sees my face.
“What happened?”
I don’t answer. Just turn my head to stare at the ceiling again, blinking fast.
Because suddenly, the soft cotton of my nightshirt feels too thin. The bed too big. My skin too exposed.
When I finally speak, my voice is barely above a whisper. “They’re everywhere.”
I reach for my phone, unlock it, and hold it out so he can see for himself. He takes it from me slowly, scrolling in silence. His jaw tightens as he swipes through the photos, the comments. The parts of me now scattered across the internet like I asked to be consumed.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I say, voice thin. “But it doesn’t matter. They’ve already decided who I am.”
He sets the phone down, carefully. Like he’s afraid he’ll crush it if he holds it a second longer.
“Let them talk,” he says, his voice low and steady. “They don’t know you.”
“They don’t have to.” My voice cracks. “They don’t care about the truth. Just the story.”
Will walks over slowly, crouching beside the bed so he’s eye-level with me. His hand brushes my arm.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says again, softer now. “You had one good night. One moment that belonged to you. And they took it.”
