Linkin watches me for a long moment before speaking again. “And what doyouchoose?”
I straighten a little, brushing my hair back from my face and shrugging the blanket off my shoulders like I don’t need it anymore. When I speak, the words feel tentative at first, then steadier as I hear myself say them.
“I choose me,” I say. The sentence lands, then expands. “I choose my career. My band. My peace. If he wants to exist anywhere near my orbit, he can do the work. If he doesn’t?” I lift one shoulder. “I’ll still be fine.”
Linkin’s smile spreads slowly, lighting up his face, proud in that unmistakable way that always feels like sunlight aimed directly at my chest. “There she is.”
“You’re acting as if I disappeared. I wasn’t gone,” I say quietly, searching for the right phrasing. “Just… discombobulated.”
He nods solemnly. “Completely valid. If my ex, whom I accidentally trauma-bonded with, showed up unexpectedly, I’d also require twelve weighted blankets and possibly a priest.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. “You’re an idiot.”
“A sexy, emotionally intelligent idiot,” he corrects, patting my knee. “Please respect my brand.”
Link reaches for the notebook perched on the side table and flips it open. “Okay. We need to come up with a game plan.”
“For what?” I ask. “Surviving my new bodyguard?”
My brows lift just as that familiar, dangerous grin creeps across his face. With him, that look can mean violence, glitter, or both. Usually, the Venn diagram of the two is a perfect circle.
He wiggles the notebook. “Obviously, we’re strategizing with a tasteful amount of pettiness.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “This is ridiculous.”
“Yes,” he agrees cheerfully. “But so fucking necessary.”
He taps the notebook with one of his ridiculous pens—this one says ‘in loving memory of when I gave a fuck’—and straightens like he’s about to deliver a keynote speech.
“Welcome to my TED Talk,” he announces. “It’s calledHow to Psychologically Dominate Your Ex in Three Easy Steps.Step one: emotional presentation.”
A laugh sputters out of me. “You’re insane.”
“You already knew that, but I prefer the term effective,” he corrects, scribbling something down. “When he sees you this morning, youwillradiate serenity and superiority. Ideally, with flattering lighting. Step two: physical presentation.”
I groan. “Link—”
He cuts me off with a raised hand. “Don’t argue. We both know you already picked your outfit—I mean armor, in your head.”
…I did. I don’t know if I love or hate how fast he clocked that.
Something soft crosses his face, the humor giving way to fond understanding. “You’ve always worn armor, ‘Leste. You just forget sometimes that it’s yours by choice.”
I sit a little straighter. “Fine. Physical presentation. What’s the plan?”
Linkin’s eyebrows do a little dance. “Soft Celeste for morning rehearsals. Ara for soundcheck and stage prep.”
He looks at me like I’ve asked him something precious. “Because you are both. And he needs to see that you exist fully in every version of yourself. You’re not the woman he walked away from.” His smile is warm. “You’re stronger. And you deserve to feel that.”
He stretches his long, tattooed arms over his head. “Step three: boundaries.”
“Boundaries,” I repeat, careful with the word.
“Yes. Boundaries.” His tone is light, but there’s steel under it. “You control the who, the what, and how close he gets—emotionallyandphysically. He doesn’t set the pace. You do.”
A slow breath leaves me. “I like that step.”
“I knew you would.”
