Everest left and I’m killing time until I have to meet with Lorna. I watch the playback with a critical eye, arms wrapped around myself, jaw tight. It’s good. Technically flawless. My timing is right. My reactions land. The performance is polished.
But my gaze keeps sliding away from the lens.
It’s subtle. Most people won’t catch it. Lorna definitely will.
I don’t look hungry. I look… bored.
I shut the laptop off harder than necessary and lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling like it might have answers. The truth presses at the back of my throat, sour and undeniable.
I don’t want them watching me.
I wanthimwatching me.
The way Everest looks at me isn’t practiced or transactional or expectant. He doesn’t consume me like a product. Heseesme—like he’s trying to memorize something he’s afraid he’ll lose.
It’s ruined me.
There’s a knock on my door not even twenty minutes later.
I don’t have to open it to know who it is.
“Door,” Lorna calls, amused. “Unless you’ve decided to fake your own death again.”
I open it in leggings and one of Everest’s hoodies—oversized, soft, worn at the cuffs. He left it here two nights ago and I haven’t even pretended to give it back.
Her eyes flick to it immediately, then to my face. She smiles like a shark who’s scented blood.
“Well,” she says, breezing past me. “Someone’s glowing. And judging by the way you’re moving, someone’s also sore.”
“I did Pilates,” I lie. “I thought I was meeting you at BTL?”
She snorts and drops onto my couch, crossing her legs. “You hate Pilates. And I was driving around getting coffee and a salmon bagel, thought I’m in the area, why don’t I just pop in instead.”
“Fine, I didn't do Pilates. I filmed a scene that was more intense than normal. Branching out.”
“You’re branching into feelings,” she corrects. “And it’s showing on camera.”
“My content’s fine,” I reply defensively.
“It’sgreat,” she says easily. “That’s not the problem.” She tilts her head, studying me. “You don’t want the audience anymore,” she says. “You want anaudience of one.”
I open my mouth to deny it. Nothing comes out.
Lorna’s expression softens just a fraction. “You like this one.”
I shrug. “He’s fun.”
“You don’t get this weird about fun.”
“I’m not weird.”
She raises a brow. “You’re wearing his clothes.”
I glance down like I’ve just noticed. Heat crawls up my neck. “He stayed over.”
“Mmm.”
“And cleaned my apartment,” I add before I can stop myself.
