Maybe it's time I stopped pretending too.
My phone buzzes one more time.
Holly renamed the group chat “THE BANGER SISTERS” (3 minutes ago)
A laugh escapes me. Watery and raw, but real.
One thing I do know for sure—I found my tribe.
Tonight, I'm going to hold onto that.
Tomorrow, I'll tackle the rest.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sierra
Sleep isn't happening.
I've tried everything. Counting sheep. Counting breaths. Counting all the reasons I should not still be replaying the exact pressure of Everett's fingers while my brothers debatedsexy Santa calendarsfive feet away.
None of it works.
My body is still buzzing. Still humming at a frequency that should be illegal. Every time I close my eyes, I'm back in that hot tub—steam curling around us, his hand sliding up my thigh, that look in his eyes that saidI dare you to stop me.
I didn't stop him.
I came so hard I forgot the heritage. All of it. Everything that’s been as integral to my survival as the blood pumping through my veins.
Sierra “Just Got Fingered In Front Of Her Family” Barrett.
Thanks for that, Eve.
The group chat has finally gone quiet—probablybecause it's 3 a.m. and normal humans are asleep—but my phone screen still glows in the dark offering me a distraction from my every replay of Everett’s fingers.
I should put it down.
I should close my eyes and process like a functioning adult with healthy coping mechanisms.
Instead, I open Instagram.
Just to check. Just to see if the festival content is still holing strong. Professional curiosity. Totally normal.
The first thing I see is Tara Greene's verified account.
My thumb hovers.
Don't do it. Don't click. Nothing good happens after midnight on a reality TV producer's social media.
I click.
And my stomach drops straight through the mattress.
She's posted a carousel. No caption—just a simple emoji and the hashtag #MorganLodgeBTS.
The first image is Everett behind the bar, caught mid-conversation with his jaw tight and eyes hard. Out of context, he looks cold. Dismissive.
I swipe.
