I prop up against the brick wall. Cold seeps through my sweater. Around me, the city moves. Oblivious. Normal. While my entire carefully constructed life threatens to unravel because I dared want something reckless.
My phone rings. Evan's name flashes.
I consider ignoring it. But practicality wins. It always does.
"Hey."
"Lacy. Jesus. Have you seen Twitter?"
"I'm looking at it now."
"This is bad. Like, career-damaging bad. The optics?—"
"I know about the optics, Evan."
A pause. Then his voice gentles. The tone he uses when he thinks I'm spiraling. Controlled. Soothing. The vocal equivalent of a sedative.
"Listen. I know you're stressed. But I can help. Let me help."
"How?"
"The bookstore lease. Your bills. I can cover them. Take the financial pressure off while this blows over. Give you breathing room to figure out what you actually want versus what you're reacting to."
I close my eyes. "That's a lot of money."
"I'm doing well. The new position pays significantly more. And honestly?" He exhales. "I still care about you. I want you to be okay. Even if we're not together."
The offer dangles. Tempting. Terrifying.
Bills paid. Aunt Rene's prescriptions covered. The bookstore saved. All I have to do is step back. Let Evan handle things. Return to the predictable, manageable life where feelings don't go viral and love doesn't threaten everything.
"What's the catch?"
"No catch. Just think about the job. And maybe take a break from the public stuff. Let the story die down. People have short attention spans. Another scandal will replace you by next week."
Another scandal. Like what I feel for Stone is scandalous instead of real.
"I need to think."
"Of course. Take your time. Just know the offer stands. Predictability over spectacle, Lace. You always said you valued that."
I did say that. Back when predictability felt safe instead of suffocating.
He hangs up. I gawk at my phone. The notifications keep coming. A counter ticking up. Strangers debating my choices, my character, my worth.
I should go home. Regroup. Make lists. Do the practical thing.
Instead, I walk to Stone's building.
The door's unlocked like he said. I climb stairs that smell like curry and cleaning products. His apartment is on the third floor. Number 3C.
I knock.
"It's open."
His voice rumbles through the door. Deep. Familiar. The sound alone steadies me.
I push inside.
