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Cold Shower

The sun is warm, and Olive and I spend a quiet afternoon outside.

She’s sitting at the edge of the pool, legs dipped in the water, sunglasses on—bare legs glistening with sunscreen.

I’ve come down from my jealousy-driven spiral. The first thing I did yesterday, when Olive mentioned grabbing coffee with thisfriendof hers, was get his name—Matt—and immediately text Liam.

Ash:

Who’s Matt?

Liam:

No idea. I don’t know any Matt. What are you on about?

Ash:

Olive’s meeting him for coffee.

Liam:

And why do you care who she’s meeting? …Wait. I remember Matt now. He was always hanging out with a bunch of girls in college—firmly friend-zoned. They liked him, but no one ever fancied him. I met him a couple of times at their study group. Honestly? Kind of felt sorry for the guy.

Ash:

Just looking out for your sister. Don’t want her meeting any creeps.

Liam:

Nah, not a creep. Thanks for watching out for her, though.

And just like that, I’d felt better.

Now, sitting by the pool, I can’t help but ask, “Good coffee yesterday?” I keep it light, like this is small talk about weather patterns and not a topic that kept me checking my texts more than once.

I can’t see her face from here—I’m too far away. She hums. “Yeah. It was nice.”

I nod like I have a quota of nods to hit. “Will you meet him again soon?”

She doesn’t even glance up, still caught in her own thoughts. “I don’t think so. He was only in town for a couple days. Pretty sure he wants to get back to his girlfriend as soon as possible.”

“Ah. Got it,” I say, aiming for casual. But inside? I’m throwing a goddamn party. The weight lifts off me so fast it’s dizzying, and I dive back into working on my song with a burst of fresh energy.

I’ve noticed spending time with Olive is somehow both relaxing and energizing—like she’s equal parts calm and chaos. She sparks something in me. It’s cliché, but I swear she’s my muse.

And then it hits—the next line of the song I’ve been stuck on. Clear, vivid,right.

Where the hell is my notebook? Music’s like dreaming—if I don’t write it down immediately, it’s gone.

“Damn it,” I mutter.

I’m halfway to panicking when Olive, sweet and nerdy as ever, offers me the notebook she always seems to carry around.

I flip through the notebook, skimming quickly for a blank page.

Then I see it.

At first, I only catch the title—“After the Photoshoot”—and I pause, curiosity flickering.