“Are you kidding?” Lucas laughs. “Brandon, the woman looks at you like you hung the moon. Whatever you're worried about, it shouldn't be whether she's interested.”
“You don't know that.”
“We all know that,” Wyatt says.
“So,” Jake says quietly, “what are you going to do about it? Because, from where I'm sitting, you both want the same thing, but you're too scared to say it.”
“It's complicated,” I say finally.
“The best relationships usually are,” Jake says quietly.
I think about Stella, about how she felt in my arms that morning, about how right it felt to wake up with her tangled around me. About how empty my apartment has felt since she moved back across the hall.
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes with a text notification. For a split second, I hope it's Stella, but it's just my sister Nina asking about my weekend.
The guys have moved on to other topics, but their words echo in my head.
Maybe they're right. Maybe it's time to stop pretending that what happened between Stella and me was just acting. Maybeit's time to figure out what we actually are when we're not performing for her mother.
“Enough relationship therapy,” Jake says, clapping his hands together. “Grimaldi, I need to know about the fight choreography in thatRoadhouseremake. That bar scene where you take on four guys at once? How the hell did you make that look so real?”
Now this, I can talk about. I spend the next twenty minutes breaking down the choreography, explaining how we used the environment, how each hit was calculated for maximum visual impact with minimum actual damage. Jake's eating it up, asking technical questions that prove he knows what he's talking about.
But even as I explain the technical details, part of my mind is still on Stella. On what I'm going to say to her when I get back. On whether I'm brave enough to risk our friendship for the chance at something more.
Because, sitting here with these guys, all of whom have found their people and built lives worth living, I'm starting to realize that maybe what I want isn't just someone to pass time with. Maybe I want what they have. Partnership. Someone who's there for the good days and the bad. Someone who makes everything better just by existing.
Maybe I want Stella.
thirty
. . .
Stella
I'm fumblingwith my keys outside my apartment door when I hear the elevator ding behind me. I turn to see Brandon stepping out, looking tanned and relaxed. He's carrying a weekend bag and wearing a soft gray t-shirt that makes his eyes look even more golden than usual.
His face lights up when he sees me. “Hey. Perfect timing.”
“Hey, yourself.” I can't help but smile back. “How was Manmorial Weekend?”
“Amazing. Really amazing.” He sets down his bag to fish for his own keys. “The house was incredible, the golf was terrible, and I think I consumed my body weight in whiskey.”
“I'm so happy for you,” I say, and I mean it completely. “You've been wanting that invitation forever.”
“Yeah, it felt good to finally be included.” He pauses, studying my face. “How was your weekend? Did the girls spoil you properly?”
“They did. Blair's baby is absolutely perfect, and we may have consumed our own body weight in wine and gossip.”
We're both standing in the hallway now, keys in hand, but neither of us is making a move toward our respective doors. Theair between us feels charged, like there's something important hovering just beneath the surface of this casual conversation.
“Stella, I?—”
“Can we talk?” I blurt out at the same time.
We both laugh, and the tension breaks slightly.
“Your place or mine?” he asks, but he's already unlocking his door.
