“Just thinking.”
“About Kyle?” she teases.
I hesitate, then nod because it’s easier than explaining the truth. “Something like that.”
“Well,” she says, leaning back, “if he makes you smile, screw the headlines.”
I laugh quietly. “You’ve been spending too much time in the ER. You sound jaded.”
“I sound realistic.” She grins. “If you like him, go for it. But if you don’t—don’t fake it just to please Dad. You’ll end up resenting both of them.”
I nod, but inside, guilt twists. Because she’s right again—and I’m already faking it. Not for Dad. Not even for Kyle. For myself. Because pretending I could fall for someone safe feels easier than admitting the truth: I’m already falling for someone dangerous.
Someone who shouldn’t even cross my mind at this table.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, glance at the screen.
Magnus:When do I get to meet Butter?
My pulse spikes. I shove the phone face down on the table before anyone notices.
Molly raises an eyebrow. “Secret admirer?”
“Work thing,” I lie smoothly.
She smirks. “Uh-huh.”
Across the room, my father starts talking about trade deadlines and sponsorships, his voice a constant hum of authority. My mother nods along, proud and distant all at once. I sip my espresso and pretend to listen, but my thoughts are far away—back in that hotel, in that moment I swore I’d forget.
The worst part? I can’t decide what burns hotter. The shame or the longing.
10
Magnus
The photos won’t stop breeding.
Every time I open my phone, there’s another “analysis” thread pretending it’s journalism. Another edit with soft piano and captions like“Ayle endgame?”
It’s all Kyle’s shoulder brushing Alaric’s on the bench, Kyle’s hand at the small of his back as they duck a camera, Kyle’s dopey grin while Alaric actually laughs. The algorithm thinks I’m a fan. I’m not. I’m a problem.
I tell myself I’m above it. Lasts about a day. Then I’m streaming Titans games “for scouting” and rewinding micro-moments like a lunatic. I watch the way Alaric resets after a bad shift, the infinitesimal set of his shoulders when he’s mad. I watch for cracks. I watch for me. Do you want him, or are you pretending you don’t want me?
He hasn’t answered my last two messages. Three, if we’re counting the one I typed and deleted six times before sendingThinking of youlike a coward. Nothing. Not even the read receipt.
The Wolves run practice like Phoenix is trying to drown us in drills. I’m half a beat off, and of course Johnny notices.
“You with us, Flint?” he chirps. “Or you watching your stories?”
“Eat ice,” I growl. It lands flat. Jax snickers. Phoenix’s stare saysget your head back or I’ll rip it off and hand it to you.
I do the reps until the lactic acid burns off the edges of my brain. It doesn’t help. By the time I’m peeling my gear, I’m twitchy with unsaid things. The locker room chatter turns to weekend plans and sponsorship dinners. Leander mentions a gala downtown, some foundation thing at the Aurelius Hotel. Fancy. Old money. Silver City’s favorite costume.
“Isn’t that the Hale charity night?” Jax asks, towel over his head. “Cardiac research, scholarships, tuxedos, bite-sized food?”
Phoenix grunts. “Yeah. They do it every winter.”
I don’t mean to look up. I do. The Hale family’s signature event. Of course. That’s where he’ll be.
