She snorts. “Don’t push it.”
We’re halfway down the trail when my phone buzzes for the second time. It’s a video call. The guys never ring twice unless it’s blood or gossip. Ana tilts her head.
“Take it,” she says, brave voice not quite hiding the pinch at the corners of her mouth.
I thumb it open. Three faces crowd the screen—Duke, Saint, and Crash—our chaos hydra.
“Nyxxy,” Duke sings. “Is the hermit alive? Blink twice if you’ve been domesticated.”
“I bet anything he has conditioner in the house,” Saint says. “That’s a cry for help.”
Crash squints. “Is that… are those trees? Are you feral now? What happened to neon lights and bad decisions?”
“I’m on retreat,” I say. “Composing.”
Duke leans so close his eyeball becomes the moon. “Rumor says you’re doing a duet with a classical princess. Which is hilarious considering you play everything by ear.”
Ana laughs—soft, surprised, like the sound startles her. It’s the first real laugh I’ve heard since those phone calls, and for that alone, I could kiss Duke.
“Tell them hello,” I murmur.
She waves, queenly and mortified. “Hello.”
Saint’s brows hit his hairline. “She’s hot. Also, she looks like she color-codes her planner. Does she know what you’re like?”
Duke whistles. “He’s punching above his weight, boys.”
“Bye,” I say, stabbing the screen. The path returns to crickets and creek hush. Ana’s smile has wilted at the edges.
“They were teasing,” I say. “They tease everyone.”
She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “I’m just… not used to being a rumor.” A beat. “Or a punchline.”
I stop walking. “Hey.” When she looks up, I make sure my voice is clean as a vow. “They don’t get a vote on us. You do. I do.”
The night feels closer, kinder. She nods once, the kind of nod that sounds like a page turning.
“Okay,” she says. “Walk me to the water. I imagine it’s pretty in the moonlight.”
The sound of water grows louder, tumbling and alive. She slows when the creek comes into view, moonlight glittering off its surface.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I say, watching her instead. “You ready for some therapy by submersion?”
Her brows draw together. “Submersion?”
I kick off my boots and grip the hem of my tee—this one has a line of rats circling the band name and trailing under the arm and onto the back of the shirt. “You know… immersion therapy. The full-body kind.”
Her mouth opens. “Wait—you mean—”
“Skinny-dipping,” I finish, deadpan, tugging the shirt over my head. “Don’t worry, it’s a proven treatment for creative burnout.”
Her eyes widen, equal parts scandalized and intrigued. “You could have warned me.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I grin. “Besides, you can keep your clothes on if you want. Or just wear your dignity. Dealer’s choice.”
She folds her arms, but the corner of her mouth twitches. “You’re impossible.”
