CASPIAN: What???
ANTONIO: tombstone, candle, shy face, shocked face? what r u saying?
Xaden snorts. “If I’d known Caspian’s this clueless, I wouldn’t have been so jealous.”
More texts fly:
CASPIAN: “What did I say? I didn’t even know I had a tombstone emoji! It was an accident. But the candle means something romantic, right? Help me Cole!”
I type fast:
COLE: “Forget the tombstone — why did you send him a shy face and a shocked face? You basically told him he reminds you of your dead grandmother and it’s awkward. You literally ghosted him. Ha ha.”
Xaden laughs. “Savage.”
“He deserves it.”
CASPIAN: “NOT FUNNY! I’M GOING TO THROW UP! HOW DO I FIX THIS?”
CASPIAN: “I’M COMING OVER!”
I groan. “Well. He’s coming over.”
“Can I still be here?” Xaden asks, and the careful way he says it wrecks me a little.
“Of course. I wouldn’t deprive you of the delight that is Caspian Stone panicking in the name of love.”
Ten minutes later, Caspian bursts in — flushed, hair chaotic, phone aloft — then freezes at the sight of us on the couch. He stares at our linked hands like he just walked in on a crime scene.
“Do I need to know anything about this?” he asks, eyes ping-ponging.
“No, you don’t,” Xaden says easily. I nod.
“Thank God. Because I’m having a crisis.” He wedges himself between us without asking. “How do I fix this? Should I never use emojis again?”
“Yes,” I say. “From now on, words only. Just avoid death metaphors.”
“He already thinks I’m old,” Caspian moans. “Now he knows I don’t understand emojis. He’s going to ditch me.”
“He’s not,” I promise. “Text: I do like you. I panicked. Accidentally sent you a ghost story.”
He types like he’s defusing a bomb. We wait.
Ping.
ANTONIO:U r so clueless. And a menace.
Caspian’s eyes shine with relief. “That’s… good? Right?”
“It’s good,” I assure him. Then I grin. “I’m telling this story at your wedding.” He groans into a cushion.
XADEN
Caspian leaves buzzing with relief and nerves, and quiet returns. Cole walks me to the porch. The air smells like rain on warmpavement, sugar floating from someone’s late-night baking. The porch light glows against his curls, his jaw, the place my thumb wants to rest.
“I’m glad you stayed,” he says softly.
“Yeah?” I ask, because sometimes you need to hear the thing you already know.
