Absolutely not.
I swallow. “Fine.”
He doesn’t buy it.
“What’s happening with your phone?” he asks.
I try to block the screen with my hand, but it lights up.
With his name.
Next to my ex’s.
Trending together.
He goes still.
“Why,” he says slowly, “is my name next to a guy holding a guitar?”
I die inside.
Show him my phone.
He reads.
His jaw tightens.
He scrolls.
Something dark flashes across his expression.
Not anger.
Hurt.
Disbelief.
Then anger.
“How long,” he says, voice low, “was this guy writing songs about you?”
My chest pinches. “Bryce...”
“Just answer.”
I look away. “He always wrote about us. It was part of our relationship.”
Wrong thing.
Bryce laughs once, sharp. “Great. So I’m competing with a damn soundtrack.”
“It’s not a competition.”
“No?” His voice rises. “Because the internet thinks it is.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
